


The Danse Macabre

by donttouchthefigs



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28275087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donttouchthefigs/pseuds/donttouchthefigs
Summary: Victorian AU. Clarice Starling attempts to thwart Mason Verger's attempt to kill her once mentor the former Doctor Lecter, and ends up in the latter man's care for the entire winter. A story that started out as a fun one shot stand alone now has developed into a rewrite of the last half of the Hannibal novel.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter & Clarice Starling, clarice - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. The Hunter and The Bird

**Author's Note:**

> So, my group of Hannibal novel-lovers and I spend far, far too much time thinking of every possible scenario and exchange the good doctor and Clarice can have, and one AU brought up was a period drama. I had for a long time had something cooking in the back of my mind of taking the gothic romance themes already in place in the novel and turning it into a good old fashion Victorian Gothic Romance, how the story would be changed and the characters places in that time, all in good fun.
> 
> So here is the climax of the novel Hannibal, the Verger barn scene from such an AU
> 
> Enjoy!

It was truly nothing like Clarice envisioned, her first ball. Firstly, she was not a young girl. Secondly, there was no bubbling anticipation welling in her belly popping and delightful like champagne. She was, however, in borrowed clothing-at least that she had predicted. She pulled the late Mrs. Crawford's cloak from her shoulders, handing to the random servant who reached for it. She ought to have felt bad, having pilfered the poor dead woman's trunk moments after hearing that Jack was in the good nurses' care for his heart. But there was a much more pressing matter to attend to.

Besides, she'd lived in Bella's shadow all her adult life. It was fitting somehow.

Clarice acted impatient when a guard inspected her invitation, as she had seen more than one fine lady do. She had poorly adjusted Jack's name on it in haste to Jaqueline, a truly uninspired move borne of haste and need. But the entrance hall was cloistered and hot and the servants ill-treated. They saw the Verger crest in its authenticity and nodded her along.

Also differing from her childhood dreams of splendor and gaiety, the actual ballroom was disgustingly hot, the press of bodies reminding her of farm animals herded in for the slaughter-and wasn't it just so?

This elaborate party was a trap, just as much a trap as the fake love trinkets tucked into her trunk in her flat, a trap like Jack's first attempt to raise her from the station in which she had been born. And they all had one prey in mind-not her, the too-clever American girl trying desperately to wedge herself into respectable London society. But one Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

And he was here. She knew it-he would not resist such a joke. To sneak into Mason Verger's annual Christmas masquerade, drink his wine, and enjoy mocking his tasteless gold trappings whilst the master lounged in his moving chair, paralyzed and ugly, hidden by a curtain.

Through her own feathered mask, pinned so tightly to her temples it ached, she saw his form up on the balcony. The bastard, sitting behind a thin veil. She also saw the matronly silhouette of Judy behind him, his eternal servant. His sister Margot stood at the edge, nodding her head to whoever caught her eye so far above the crowd, welcoming them to her brother's home. She was severe in her black gown, high collared and trimmed in lace, her face maskless and white-blonde hair in its pristine chignon high on her head. One hand rested claw-like on the banister, fingernails tapping impatiently. She reminded Clarice of a sleek corvid, deceptively intelligent, and the symbol of oncoming doom.

Even though she knew Margot was the daughter of a low noble, and Clarice was simply a child of a Texan lawman, a dead cowboy, the former nurse could not help but compare herself with the woman. Always comparing.

Though it was not much of a contest, Clarice's silks were old, and really from the presentation gown her cousin's wife had made for her, back in the time when they thought they had gained a little girl from 'the colonies' to raise into a lady to hand London's _ton_ and perhaps a man with fortune. They had been mistaken, and the dress had sat unused in her trunk for years. When she and Ardelia graduated, they had pooled their money and tore apart the old fashioned gowns their respective families had given them for scraps and had proper gowns made up in starry-eyed hope that their new titles would give them a position in society, Clarice for the hospital, Ardelia to secretary for a barrister.

Now Clarice felt stupid in her dark maroon silk, so obviously stitched from a fashion plate with thread made in a factory. But she blended well enough, which is all she asked for this evening.

Was Margot searching as Clarice was searching? Then the hunt was on, and Clarice was going to win against the little princess. She had to.

For there was another purpose to this gala. Mason had not simply bought music and performers for entertainment. No, he planned to use the good doctor as a bear in his own personal fight.

When she had been sent packing from the hospital, shamed and primed for the constable to come knocking at her door to take her to the jailhouse, she had been followed. Mr. Brigham, bless his soul, had taught her how to divine these things. One of the same turn was a coincidence, three or more was a tail. He had used her for such things, taught her to take side streets to remain undetected, back in the days when she had hoped to become an assistant to the detectives, though Mr. Crawford had never shown a sign of actually helping her. Oh, he had secured her a kindly landlord when she first graduated nursing school and often sent her on interesting errands (though none as interesting as the first), but never truly brought her under his wing. Never even so gallant as to offer for her hand, as Mr. Brigham had, though the familiarity in which he spoke down to her would have been an indication of a future proposal to most women.

And Clarice knew how to doublecross a tail. Dr. Lecter, damn his lily-white hide, had given her such a tip as well as other interesting things during their talks in the asylum. He, as poised and patient as a gentleman in his ragged clothes, sitting in his bolted down desk and chair, a heavy chain about his ankle. Clarice had slipped through several crowded stores until her pursuers were confused about which wool-clad brunette was their quarry, and doubled back, sneaking upon them in a deserted alley. She was glad then she had never spent the pounds for heeled boots that surely would have made a sound.

Her followers were brutish men, stinking, and rough. Professional kidnappers, she recognized. Sometimes the police used them to capture the more elusive thieves and petty criminals. They had talked of her, but moreover what her use was. To lure out the doctor. They spat whenever his name was mentioned (and when it was not) and talked with glee about the tortures waiting for him at Mason's hands for the elite guests at the ball-and if they used boxes and peepholes through the wall, did they think they could catch a glimpse?

Tortured like an animal-less than an animal. Even animals deserved clean deaths. It was not the killing that rankled Starling, however. She'd seen enough duels allowed by her father and the sheriff. He had a grievance, he should be allowed to see the man who harmed him dead, no matter how disgusting Mason was. But torture-and the kind her would-be kidnappers had described had turned her stomach. There was no honor in it. She had almost been sick when she returned home.

Instead, she had turned resolute. Clarice did not know exactly what she was going to do when she found him, but despite his supposed insanity, Lecter was at least intelligent. Could be reasoned with; bargained with. And Clarice had an ace in her reticule-her father's LeMat. That should at least be reason enough if she needed to resort to it.

If she ever did. The ballroom, massive as it was, was a crushed ring around an almost as crushed dancefloor. The dancers weaved in and around each other, probably glad for the little wind there was when they moved to help from the stinking heat. Candles were stuffed everywhere to give light and only managed to heat the place more. Was not Mason rich enough to begin installing electricity? But it was better for her, Clarice acknowledged, even as she despaired of moving, let alone searching.

Dr. Lecter's eyes had been almost brown in the stark sickly electrical light of the asylum. But when Lady Martin had swung her weight and tried to have him moved to Scotland, the room in which they kept him only had candles. That, more than her confession, had stuck with her from that last meeting. The burning flames, hot as hell, had danced across his skin and hair but were entirely lost in his claret eyes. They had flickered and danced like the flames, but never brightly, never shone. And in this ball of fake faces, eyes were all she had to go on.

Clarice elbowed her way through the crowds, first to the punch table, and then to the gardens with no luck. Oh, she found plenty of drunken men about, trying to capture her hand, and introduce themselves for a dance of one kind or another, whether in the ballroom or in the dirt of the flower beds. She had deliberately dug her heel into the foot of a few who, when 'admiring' the flowers stitched into her collar, brushed her bare shoulders.

She found a place to breathe against the wall, sweating, head reeling from lack of oxygen, and already tired. Clarice tugged her white gloves higher on her upper arms and fortified herself. Even if the sun rose, she would not stop until Lecter was found and saved from his gruesome fate.

Back into the fray went she, already lashing out with an elbow to a man who took her waist from behind, missing his side by a hair's breadth.

"Ah-careful now."

Her stomach lurched, but before she could gasp, or even register what was happening, the man beside her bent and picked up the end of her dress' train, placing the loop over her hand, and led her onto the floor.

Dr. Lecter spun her to face him, and with one hand respectfully at her back, the other gently grasped her fingers and led her into the swirling tide of bodies that lapped in time to the orchestra. And his eyes indeed danced as well in the candlelight.

Her feet dumbly moved in time, more instinct than actual motion, born of all those lessons from books, and practiced secretly in her bedchamber. Her mind, however, was fixed on the man before her. Though not tall, still a head above her, all she could see of the face she remembered so well was the sleek, strong jaw, now clean-shaven, and the slightly straight nose. She had wanted, in their discussions, to ask how and who broke it once upon a time. But it had been too informal a question, and would give evidence that she had been starring at his face for pleasure rather than a necessity, something she only did in her memory rather than at the time-and rather guiltily at that. He wore a black domino mask, and a lovely suit of black silk, neither flashy nor drab. Simply finely made and sleek.

"For shame, Clarice, you have stolen my role."

"What," she asked dumbly.

His eyes narrowed in censure but continued, "I am the bird they seek to hunt, you are the thief, ready to steal their prey. We have on each other's costumes." He nodded to the feathers adorning her mask.

"Doctor, you know you're in danger and yet..." Clarice swallowed and glanced up at the balcony. Margot was no longer looking at the crowd but had her head turned to Barnabas, her own suspiciously new servant. Starling's eyes narrowed. Traitor.

"Oh, do not feel unkindly towards our friend. He has neither your looks nor your pedigree to move him ahead in society. And yes, to him even your paltry list of relatives in respectable places is better. Surely Miss Mapp has informed you of such?"

"I didn't come to discuss the machinations of London's society," she hissed. "We have to move towards the garden or somewhere we can sneak-"

"Sneak? In the middle of a ball? Alone, the two of us?" He grinned as red infused her neck-not a maidenly blush but a flush of rage at his flippant attitude. "You've been indulging in Miss Radcliffe's works, I think."

Clarice had a great desire to stamp on his foot but controlled it. "This isn't a game! Or a joke! They mean to kill you, and not cleanly." Perhaps sensing her intent to trample his shoes he spun her to the swell of music. When they had resumed the proper hold, it did not escape her that she was closer to him now. Close enough to smell the leather, smoke, and orange blossom off his jacket, no doubt from the garden where he had watched her move "Doctor, please, believe me, men like him do not like to have what they want slip through their fingers! I know!"

"Men like Cheif Inspector Krendler, I presume? Oh yes, I have followed with great interest his hand in your public disgrace. Shameful. Not of you, of course. Do not mistake my meaning."

"I've never mistaken you, doctor," Clarice stated.

"I know," was his reply, now suddenly without artifice or humor. "Perhaps you are right."

As quickly as he had swept her on, they exited the dance floor smoothly. He led her through the sandbar of bodies that encased the dancers and led her to a wall with a fresco of a farmer herding sheep and pigs. Pressing a place on the wall, a sliver swung open revealing a servant's passage.

Clarice was pulled in, and the light and noise of the ball were shut out, muffled by the wall. She backed up, trying to give herself room, trying to see in the sudden darkness. There was a place on the wall, the farmer's eyes, that was merely painted paper-a place for a servant to see through to decipher if anyone was standing before the door as they exited. The peephole only gave her slants of light to work with as she found her footing and the wall to lean against.

Dr. Lecter had removed his mask and tossed it somewhere. He now held her reticule, which Clarice only then realized had been slipped off her hand. Pulling out the revolver, Lecter smirked. "Never a dull evening with the Lady Starling. Was this silver meant for me or a monster more grotesque?"

"It depended."

"On?"

"Who was more disagreeable at the given moment."

Lecter tucked the gun back in her bag. "And this one?"

"I haven't decided yet." How easy was it to settle back into the cadence of conversation with him! They hadn't stopped dancing, after all, even these years later. "Doctor, please. I have a carriage outside. It's well hidden in a grove just down the lane from the house. They won't notice two guests leaving."

"You've planned this all out? How did you come by his plans?"

"I heard talk."

"Ah, you were tailed as well." He stepped closer to her, and gently pulled the hairpins that kept her mask in place. The cool air of the passage was a blessing on her damp face.

"Yes, now doctor please-"

"Seeing as you are here and not in some awful dungeon, my advice proved helpful?"

"...Yes."

"Though you did not heed my warning of Mr. Crawford, what of my instructions in my letter? After that horrible hostage incident with the prostitute Madam and the child?"

Clarice closed her eyes and saw again the old skillet he had told her to look into. "Yes. Yes, I always remember your advice, where ever I go. Does that please you?" He would never do anything without a pound of flesh-literally or not. Confession out in the open, she continued. "Will you now heed _my_ advice and leave before they find us?"

She opened her eyes again and saw him gently bite his gloved finger, sliding his hand out of the encasing material. Tucking the kid leather away, she watched half agony, half hope, as his fingers moved towards her, hovering over her cheek and jaw.

Clarice had always thought Dr. Lecter cold, remote, and apart, despite the fire of his words. He was always so in control, so calm. And when their hands had touched that once, he indeed, had been cold from the Scottish winter crawling into his prison.

But now...now as fingertips brushed a tiny whisp of a lock from her temple, his fingers burned. She gasped from it when his warm palm dwarfed her cheek and held. He had held her as they danced and that had, technically, been an embrace. But this, this was _truly_ a touch.

"Are you afraid of me," he murmured, closer now.

"No." Her voice was barely a whisper, hardly audible over the loping violins and lilting brass beyond the wall.

"Are you afraid of yourself?"

Did he mean what she was willing to do? Shoot and harm as a nurse sworn to heal? Steal a dead woman's clothes and lie to accomplish her goal? Or did he mean the emotion welling in her breast, and how keenly she noted the warmth radiating from his body so close to hers? In the end, it mattered very little. "No."

"But you are trembling."

"I can't let them hurt you."

He chuckled, his breath dancing across her face. "Am I too, a lamb? Careful Clarice-" how he dragged out the syllables of her name "-For my teeth are not only for grazing." He bent his head, and Clarice was sure she'd feel those very teeth graze across her throat-and she knew though it may stop her heart, it was not for fatal intent. But instead, he merely inhaled the scent, the dab of perfume she placed behind her ear every day.

His hand trailed down, lightly grasping her throat, his thumb brushing over her jugular. Clarice shivered when that same hand swept her hair off her shoulder, resting against her collar bone like a brand.

And then he was gone from her. Her hand was suddenly heavy with her bag again, and Dr. Lecter was leaning against the opposite wall. "You're right. His joke was a poor one, and this game is not at all as fun as I imagined. You've spoiled it all, my lady, with your superior charm."

He pulled his glove back on. "Seeing as we weren't invited in the first place, best to leave the same way we came: sneaking." He started down the hall, away from the ball. Pausing when she did not move, still rooted to her spot and un-kissed, he extended a hand.

"Come. Come with me."

She knew there was more in that than a command to follow. For a second she made to turn, to glance back at the servant's door.

"Don't do that," he chided, a smirk gracing his mouth again. "You'll turn to salt."

Clarice sucked in a breath. She hesitated a moment longer, but finally slipped her fingers into his. Lecter held fast and lifted them to his lips, pressing a kiss there through her glove. And then another to her palm, firm and warm, inhaling her scent, again to her wrist and slightly above until she was standing close to him again. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye as he raised his head. But his forehead simply rested against hers. "There isn't time," he said, more to himself she guessed, than for her edification. Time for what? A kiss, or what a kiss would lead to?

Again she surprised herself with the ease her thoughts led given more than sufficient evidence. It had always been a rumor about her, why the famed insane doctor would speak to a poor, pretty nursing apprentice and no one else. And nothing in their discussions had been explicitly about the connection between them. It was a thing felt, more understood than acknowledged.

But he was right. There wasn't time. "We must go," she reminded.

He nodded, and with another kiss to her knuckles, led her down the passageway. It wound and turned, but never went down, as a normal servant's hall might do. Instead, it seemed to branch off at several intervals, with staircases up and down that led nowhere, as well as too many doors to count. Lecter carried with him a pocket lighter that gave them illumination as they navigated the maze.

Clarice almost wished, however, that they moved in darkness. Room after room of torture devices, tables with chains attached, and walls hung with bizarre instruments, their uses mysterious but sinister. Some were empty, but the wood was darkly stained. Worse, however, were the chambers with mattresses lain in the corners, no chains but no windows either. These rooms had no knob on the inside but had sliding peepholes cut into the wooden doors.

There was one room Lecter peered into and immediately pulled her away, simply stating, "Do not look." She trusted him, and for the rest of her life, would remain ignorant of what laid in that room to make the monster recoil.

Finally, through the maze, they stumbled upon passageways that led to the real rooms of the manor. Sitting rooms, music rooms, even a small library. They flitted in and out of these chambers, continually attempting to find an exit. Some rooms were filled with amorous party goers. Others filled with men neither dressed for nor been invited to, a ball. Men like the kidnappers. These rooms they quietly backed away from, needing to find an alternate route.

"You would know better than I," Lecter said at one point as they traversed a particularly long hall, "But do you get the feeling of being corralled?"

"You think the exits are being blocked? They know?"

"Clarice, they knew we would be here before the first servant swept the floor this morning," he pointed out. "But yes. That they know we are on the move."

Just as he spoke the thought aloud, the hall ended in one final door. Snapping his lighter shut, Lecter tucked it back into his pocket and opened it. Air! Fresh air flooded the dark hall. Clarice could smell hay and wood and the night beyond. "Then we should-"

With a hissing buzz, she was blinded by bright electrical light. She felt Lecter's arm around her waist, pulling her against his side as his other hand shielded his own face. They blinked into the sudden light and saw that they had burst out into the barn house. But it was empty, save for the hay, and a pillory standing ominously in the middle.

"Ah! At last!"

Blinking, Clarice peered up into the loft. Eyes adjusting, she now saw into the shadows that the loft itself had been converted into some sort of balcony. Velvet cushioned chairs were placed in a semi-circle and filled with finely dressed gentlemen, already in their cups. A few were already guffawing, their glasses sloshing over, dripping from the loft onto the hay below.

And in the middle, Mason, in his hideous glory, his sister as ever by his side.

"Lady Verger," Hannibal greeted, ignoring the rest.

"Doctor Lecter," Margot replied, inclining her head.

"You are well."

"And you, and your lady. Miss Starling."

"Lady Verger," Clarice murmured. She was not trembling now, no, for she saw to Mason's right Cheif Inspector Krendler, turning off the oil lamp they had used for illumination while waiting. She would never quiver under his gaze. Instead, she felt her blood boil, her face flush with exhilaration. A showdown, then, she knew how to handle these better than a ballroom. But this wasn't Tombstone, and her name had no western glory behind it.

"I feared you had gotten lost, Doctor Lecter," Mason cut in. "Or, lost track of time. Rather cozy in those halls, is it not? You were free to use one of the rooms for your private escapades. Not as romantic, but gets the job done."

"Maybe he did, and was just quick about it," Krendler laughed.

Dr. Lecter did not dignify them with a reply, but neither did he remove his hand from Clarice's waist. Behind his back, she was able to shake loose her reticule and grasped the revolver. The velvet of the bag masked the click of the hammer.

"But now that you've had your fun, doctor, it is now our turn."

Clarice heard the barn doors open and knew that the thugs they had seen herding them through the halls were standing guard at the exits.

"I'm afraid Mason, you'll get no satisfaction from me. As usual, I decline your offer of 'fun'." He gave a courtly bow.

"I do not think so doctor, especially not when you've brought a playmate. Well, if you didn't have her in the hall like a normal gentleman, I don't mind giving you a little more time before you die."

Clarice's heart beat faster, but not with fear. They were about to make their move, and she needed to be on guard for an opportunity. The suggestion itself was, vulgar, but rather predictable. Of course, men like those staring down at her did not know what to do with a woman except poke.

"Again, I decline."

"It wasn't an offer."

As Mason spoke, Krenlder stood and lazily pulling his own weapon from his holster under his jacket. He leveled it at Clarice's head. "Come now. We're all here for a show. I for one would like to see what good ole Jack has been keeping to himself."

Clarice stepped forward, eyes not on the muzzle of the gun, but starring directly at Krendler. Her own was hidden in the folds of her skirt. "You know that Mr. Crawford and I were nothing to each other, Paul."

"Paul, am I? Now, Miss Starling, not so cold are you? Let's not dawdle. The doctor here can help you with your laces."

"I do not have to see this," Margot said. She signaled to Judy, who lifted her skirts and started down the stairs. The lady followed her lover, but her brother snapped,

"Oh, yes you do. Stay."

Halfway down the stairs, Margot paused. Dr. Lecter's attention was still on her. "It's not too late," he told her softly. "All it takes is someone who can copy write well."

Clarice and Krendler continued their staredown, ignoring all around them. "Why, Paul. Why do you hate me so? Because sussed out Bill before you? All it took was asking, but all of you were too proud to get your shoes a little dirty and walk into the asylum yourself!"

"And you? Seems you've more than spoiled shoes now, my girl."

"I'm _not_ your girl," Clarice snapped. "I'm not your anything, and that is what burns you, is it not? That I told you to crawl into your wife's bed instead of pawing at mine?!"

Krendler cocked the gun. "Do you think I won't shoot a little slag like you? No one will miss you, Starling, can't you see? You're only recourse is the poor house or the whore house and I can see you never make even to there."

"That depends."

"Oh? On what?"

"Who is the quicker draw."

Two flashes of light and Clarice jerked backward, a spray of red haloing her head. A third flash as Clarice's bullet flew true, and the oil lamp exploded in tongues of fire. The wine bottles littering the floor at the elite audience's feet shattered from the sprays of glass, and the fire was quick to drink up the spilled liquor. Within a moment the loft was ablaze.

Margot still on the stairs hesitated only a moment. "Run," she screamed to the thugs in the barn's doorways. "Go, now!" Hiking up her skirts she ran towards the mansion, all the while shrieking "Fire! _Fire_!"

Above them, the screams of burning men as the fire yawned and stretched its fingers to the roof and walls. Mason, abandoned and trapped in his chair, his good arm flailing as he shouted, throat full of smoke and blood. Krendler, slapping at his legs where the flame crawled up, tripped over the banister, and fell onto the hay below, flailing and burning.

Lecter knelt and grabbed Clarice's fallen revolver. Lifting her into his arms, he ran, circling around the burning barn towards the darkened forest. He stopped only a moment, to ascertain Clarice's wound. Her head was intact, but her temple was bloody. A graze, then, and he was never more grateful for Krenlder's poor aim.

Chaos was in full swing as the party-goers finally heard Margot's shouts of danger. They flooded out from the mansion like blood from a gaping suck wound, running to carriages and horses, heedless of order or servants. No one would miss a horse from stables in the chaos.

Lecter swung onto a particularly powerful looking stallion, Clarice in his arms. He had used his gloves as padding, her own as makeshift bandages to hold them there in an attempt to stop the bleeding. They had to ride hard and fast if he was going to make it to a safe house to properly treat the wound. And from there, a few more days to his manor near Gretna Green.


	2. To Kill A Starling Bird

Clarice slipped in and out of time. She knew danger was near for a moment, eyes fluttering, and throbbing pain knocking against her temple. A hand pressed something cool to the pounding and eased it slightly before the world was black again. Another time she knew danger was passed...and yet not passed. She heard a familiar voice but could not place it, simply obeyed as the rim of a cup was put to her mouth, and drank. She coughed and sputtered, the awful taste of laudanum mixed into tea made her gag. The voice commanded, gentle but firm that she drink. Clarice choked down as much as she could before falling back onto a soft pillow and sleeping. The next few times she awoke (twice to the sunrise, once in the middle of the night) she was at least relatively pain-free.

When she finally broke the surface of consciousness, she woke to the rocking of a moving carriage. She heard the clatter of horse hooves move from cobbled stone to dry pack dirt, and the carriage wheels trundle over the divide soon after. Her eyes felt heavy, but with some effort, her lids lifted. Her first sight was her own hands encased in new gloves, laying in her lap of green velvet.

She didn't own black leather gloves or green velvet.

She pressed her fingers to her face, trying to rub away the sleep, only for her fingers to brush the silk tie of a hat, bowed tightly under her chin. She took up one of the tails, peering at it. Black silk…

_I don't own any hats with ribbons…_

Sitting up, she caught her reflection and froze. That was her face, to be sure, and her hair simply pulled up in a bun. But the fashionably tilted hat of green felt and white silk flowers was certainly not hers! Nor the grey coat with its puffed sleeves and black lace applique up the front to mask the buttons. Where on earth had these clothes come from?

Before she could begin to truly panic, a voice called her attention. "Good afternoon. I see the laudanum has finally worn off. Forgive me, but it was a last resort. You were in so much pain."

Clarice turned-and immediately regretted the speed in which she did. Clutching her head, she waited for the world to cease spinning before focusing on the man sharing her ride.

Dr. Lecter sat across from her, legs crossed, looking very fine in his black greatcoat. He marked his page in his book and set it aside, giving her his full attention.

Clarice murmured, coughing on the dryness of her words, "the ball…"

From a pocket, Lecter pulled out a flask and opened it, handing it to her. "Simply water, I assure you. We are well passed the ball, my dear, and your birthday as well I am sorry to say. It is-" he consulted his pocket watch-"one o'clock on December the twenty-seventh."

"What happened?"

"You rather courageously infiltrated Verger's ball in an attempt to spare me a rather indecent death. Do you remember?"

Clarice rubbed her forehead again and thought back. She remembered being followed...and yes, Verger's plans. Remembered sitting in her flat, bare and empty and now messy from when the inspectors ripped it apart for the planted clues. Remembered burning with the injustice and horror of it, indignation, and the _wrongness_ of torture. The wrongness of digging through Bella Crawford's things. The ball and the sweltering rooms. The cool servant's hall and warm hands holding her own. The bright light of the barn, Krendler's twisting, sneering face and then-

"I was shot," she murmured, taking another long draft of water.

"Yes. Luckily for us, Chief Inspector Krendler is as bad a shot as he is an officer. He grazed your temple."

"The barn?"

"All gone, happily enough. Your aim was true, you see. Very clever, girl, exploding the oil lamp. Set the whole place ablaze."

"I was cold." The quip was out of her mouth before her sluggish good sense rose to stall it. The doctor however laughed. The sound arrested her-she'd never heard him laugh before. Chuckle, of course, but not the full-throated pleased sound he made now.

"Indeed. You very much save us, Miss Starling. I owe you my thanks."

The girl smiled slightly in return. She had done it. She had saved him from his awful death. In reality, in the back of her mind the whole time she couldn't foresee exactly how she would accomplish her goal-only that she had to try. Some part of her believed, most ardently, that she would fail or die trying. It hadn't mattered then. Well, neither outcome had occurred and here she was.

What now?

"And I owe you mine. A blow to the head can be fatal."

"It very nearly was. I despaired of you ever waking up, and when you did you were in agony."

"Then how…?"

"I took you to a safe place-a small cottage I keep for travel and safekeeping. I treated you there with the supplies I had. In the end, it was mostly about stemming the bleeding."

"Is that where we are traveling from?" Clarice leaned forward and peered out the carriage window. She saw rolling green hills and trees, and a horse trotting alongside, its rider in a chauffeur's uniform.

"No. I was not sure if we were tailed in all the chaos the fire caused. When you were stable enough we traveled to _The Silver Swan_ so I could gather some necessary things in town. We left there this morning."

" _The Silver Swan_?" Clarice's eyes widened. She knew a few of the girls at that hotel. Had spoken to them in coffee shops and along the street on her way to work. Surely at least one of them had seen her, carried in by a strange man. A strange man straight into a hotel room! Alone! Starling's throat closed and she regarded herself again. Her clothes were different. Freshly washed too, and she certainly hadn't packed a bag when she took off in her shabby ball gown on a borrowed wagon to the Verger Mansion.

Her reputation, whatever it was, what ashes now. As much ashes as Mason's horrid barn. What was she to do? She was not socialite able to spin a dalliance into an anecdote. She was a nurse-not even that now. A dismissed nurse was some little fame, and more than enough rumors swirling about to pull her under the tide of societal suspicion. She had not known what she was going to do the morning of the ball-things had happened in such quick succession, the planted evidence in her trunk, the search, the following, and the decision to go save the doctor all in the span of one day-that her future had merely been the next moment. The next choice to make, not the many years of her life stretching before her.

There were very few roads left to her, and the only viable one was some kind of marriage-the one thing she had hoped to keep to herself. Though her chances had always been slim, rejecting Mr. Brigham when she was already on her way to being an old maid, it was the only logical choice. After all, who would want a nanny or lady's companion who'd been an asylum nurse, an Inspector's go-for, and murderess of a serial killer?

And now…

 _Your reputation? Ha! What about you? What need you a reputation if you're not even free._ Clarice glanced back at the doctor. He sat, still fully focused on her, neither worried nor glib. Merely that serene calm that the best physicians carried.

She was no blushing shy flower-having been raised in a dirty Texan territory, then a cramped orphanage and finally living in a tiny London flat she knew the particulars-even seen them performed once or twice while passing a door or dirty alley while running errands for Mr. Crawford, gathering clues he could not. And there had been the odd stable boy in her youth, a beau here and there that had pawed with a little too much familiarity.

But she wasn't a fool. Despite the absurdity of boiling her worth down to her body rather than her brain, she knew to keep some things intact. It was obvious Lecter had dressed her, yet while her muscles ached, and her head still swam, she seemed unmolested. There was no pain in sitting or moving.

Was he simply waiting for her to be awake before claiming his own 'thank you'? Was she not even going to be allowed the dignity of fighting for her life with the monster, instead to be kept as his pet?

Absurdly, even as she thought it, shame kicked at her ribs. That she should feel shame in merely thinking ill of an escaped convict was absurd, but here it was.

He had never made any undo overtures. Oh, he had been a shameless flirt in the asylum at times to throw her off-kilter, and more often than not his flirt was merely a tip cover on whatever rapier he thrust into her ego. But when they had become partners of a sort, that had ended. He had become a mentor, asking more of her than anyone had-he had asked for her honesty and for her to think- _really_ think rather than going through the paces merely to stop at an acceptable answer written in a book. He had forced her mind to work again when so many taught her to keep it hidden.

Beyond that, there had been nothing inappropriate in their dealings, not even in his two letters to her. Clarice had found no such manners among the police and inspectors. Hannibal Lecter had only ever told her the truth, even truths it had taken years to see. He'd only ever been polite.

"Where are we going," she asked plainly and knew she would get a plain answer. If he meant her for a mistress he would make no game of it. When he wished something of her, Lecter had always asked outright, never wrapping it in a cyanide compliment or interesting errand.

"To Gretna Green." The doctor folded his hands over his knee and let her take that in. Perhaps he knew where her mind had tended. "We are almost there. We will stop to rest, and have an early supper. From there I have a manor in the next village over."

She repeated the name slowly, a little stunned. Clarice...well she really wasn't sure what she had expected. The obvious answer was a place to romp and then escape as fast as possible. Perhaps even skip the romp all together and head straight for a boat under concealed names where he could resume his stolen freedom, perhaps keep her as a safety net. After all, it was only through _her_ work of pouring over shopping lists and store ledgers that had gotten them anywhere near finding him in London when he returned from Italy. Keeping such a keen hound fixed on his sent close by was the greatest safeguard.

But Gretna Green was a town neither near the sea nor big enough to conceal someone wishing to disappear. It was meant for only one thing. The memory passed before her eyes like a figure outside a curtained window: _the shadowy image of him in his ball clothes, standing in the servant's hall, gloved hand extended. Come. Come with me._

"Why that place in particular? What does it matter? Your name in society is no longer your own." _Why go through the motions?_

The doctor inclined his head. "Of course. But I'm afraid association with me has taken everything from you, except your name. I thought you might like to keep it. Any other place, buying the license would require false papers and take time, and I'm afraid we've little enough of that. Winter is already underway and the roads will be intolerable soon."

Clarice put it more plainly, attempting to keep the incredulity from her voice. "You mean to marry me outright. Properly, or as proper as you can."

"I do." The doctor lifted his chin. He hardly ever held his head upright, always regarding the world with tilted curiosity or lax boredom. But now he looked at her head-on. "I would not ask you to come with me as anything else than my wife. I'll admit our courtship had been of a peculiar nature, but none can match the longevity. Seven years."

"You call our discussions a courtship? Sending me into a warehouse to find a severed head was a token?"

"Did you not like it?"

She had. She'd loved it because it had made her important. She had figured out his clues and gotten a vital piece of evidence. She had helped. It had raised her importance in the world from mere nurse to...well, Clarice didn't know what. But he had been right. She'd loved his gift of advancement. "Is that why you spoke to me?"

Now the doctor sighed, looking away from her. His disappointment in that simple action was as palpable as a hand slammed against the wall. "I've answered that question already."

" _Do you think I like to look at you, Miss Starling, and imagine how you would taste?"_

" _I don't know, sir. Do you?"_

" _No."_

Clarice however, wasn't a girl of twenty anymore. She did not back away: "You yourself called it part of our courtship."

"Both ideas can be held at the same time. Just as I can treat you as a doctor when I need, blind to all I see, yet see you now as a man to his intended."

They rode on in silence for a long time after that, Clarice attempting to reconcile it in her head. When the carriage stopped, she believed she understood in some part. She had some experience in it herself: She had treated John Brigham's wounds more often than not-a stab to the stomach or thigh needed certain areas uncovered to be treated. She had been efficient and clinical, seeing his body without it being handsome winsome John Brigham's body. It was merely a thing of flesh and muscle to be treated, sewn, and cleaned as she had been taught. Even after, she had not reflected on what she had seen in those moments with carnal interest, despite her attraction to him. They were locked away in her brain, the same way the dissected cats were from their friendly living counterparts.

Their work together had been real. Lecter had treated her as an equal and demanded she match his wit and understanding. And separate from that had been their attraction. She ought to name it now what it was, despite the scorn and rumors of lesser men.

Attraction. She had felt it in their first touch, and in their second moments before Verger sprung his trap. Clarice viewed the doctor now as something different, as she looked upon him. Insanely (all of this was absolutely mad) she saw him and knew safety. Knew a sort of peace. He was the storm, bringing chaos always in his wake, but being so near was like sitting in the eye. Serene and deceptively calm.

Whatever her was, (and he was so many vile things) he was no liar. His word was good, and she had traded it against it many times. He told her the locations of Bill's clues, and they were there. He had told her that continuing her association with Jack Crawford would risk her life, and it had. He had told her so many truths about the police-the institution-that she, in that time, had loathed to hear. And one by one they had come true. They would hate her for being a woman and clever, hate her for being a woman and _braver_ , and most of all, they would loathe her worse than the devil himself for being true to her morals, unwavering like a compass not turned by wealth or prospects or help in society.

And Lecter now made to vow to her, something even stronger than a promise or the truth. A vow of fidelity only to her. Was this another of his jokes-wed the little would-be constable in a corset? Surely there was some of that in there-but the clarity in which they held each other's stare...

As they rolled to a stop, Lecter pulled something from his coat pocket and held it out. Her reticule swung from his fingers, heavy with her revolver. She took it, the patched velvet looking sad and miserable on top of her fine grey wool coat and kid gloves. She took out the gun and counted the bullets. All but one.

"Inside is a sort of wedding present."

That was all he said before sliding out of the carriage. One of the chauffeurs hopped down from his seat and pulled down the steps for her. Clarice, staring at the gun, was not sure what to think. A weapon, a loaded weapon, and from a quick inspection, untampered. Stuffing it back into the bag, she peered out at the afternoon sky, shockingly clear for a winter morning in Scotland.

Lecter held out his hand. "Come."

And for the second time, Clarice took his fingers, still blocked by both of their gloves, yet feeling the warmth. He helped her down the steps, as she was still unsteady on her feet. The road was well packed and worn, and a small two-story inn faced them. The sign that swung above the door had no adornments but the letters THE IRON LAMB burned into the cedar. Other than that the road was clear. South down the road, there was the distant scene of a small village and north a tiny chapel. She wondered if it even had a bell in its spindly little steeple.

Clarice finally got a good look at their cab. Not overly flashy, but nothing like the buggies she and Ardelia spoiled themselves with from time to time, trading the discomfort from the patched roofs and moth-eaten seats for the excitement of riding and sparing their feet the labor. Three trunks were strapped to the back, and the driver only took one into the inn.

Following the servant, Miss Starling caught the tail end of the conversation between the plump, cheerful innkeeper's brogue, and Dr. Lecter's velvet tones.

"...be needing a room then, sir?"

"Yes ma'am, and a meal."

"Do you mean to stay the night then?" The innkeeper was smiling knowingly but did not leer with undo humor at their obvious situation.

"I am unsure at the moment." Here the doctor glanced over the woman's head to his companion. "For now, just a place for my lady to freshen up and rest."

"Of course." The woman snapped her fingers at a girl who was wiping down glasses and spoke in quick Gaelic. The fiery-haired child hurried out from behind the bar, straightening her kerchief about her head. Clarice looked down at the young thing, remembering the cloth she had used to keep back her hair as she bent over the decaying corpse of a farmer's daughter, her flesh flayed and the corpse bloated from water. At one time Clarice would have pitied this girl for her small existence in this town, forever doomed to buss and clean until she was married and did the same in some cottage with a babe on her hip. Now...now she was not so proud. She rather envied the way the child glanced at her, in awe of her fine city clothes. The innocence in that look of inspiration.

The girl led her up the small flight of steps to the paid room, directing the chauffeur following to place the trunk at the end of the small bed. "Will you need a maid, miss? Me sister has some experience."

"Oh no, please. I am quite fine on my own." Clarice removed her gloves and hat, wincing as a handkerchief fell onto her cheek, still stuck to her temple by dried blood where the ribbon had kept it in place. She carefully pulled the cloth free as not to reopen the healing wound. The girl's eyes widened before she left, and Clarice despaired somewhat. In even this small way, this child had gotten her first bit of knowing, seeing the gore under the finery. Just like Clarice had when Chief Inspector Krendler had looked at her in that pawing way while dressing down Crawford and his fake offer to the mad doctor.

Glad to be alone, Clarice pulled off her coat and tossed it on the narrow bed, seating herself on top of the trunk. Opening her reticule, she fished inside and brought out the package Lecter had left. Juggling revolver and gift, she dumped the gun carefully into her lap. Inside the brown paper was a compact tin with the Smith & Wesson symbol stamped into the top. Cleaner for her revolver-good stuff too, more expensive than what she had at home, and that was something she made sure to splurge on. No half-witted whippersnapper was going to catch her with a backfiring weapon. Not like…

A wedding present, the doctor said. And he hadn't bought this room for the night. He'd given her back her gun, even the means to make it work perfectly, and left her alone. He never outright asked to marry her, but neither had he demanded it.

Standing, Clarice went to the window. She saw the doctor speaking to their riders, holding the spare horse's reins, and patting its flank. It must have been a steed whisked away from the ball, judging by the fine gold fringe along the bridle. She wondered what crest the saddle bore under the horse blanket.

Of course, he couldn't simply _let_ her go. Have her run back to the city, and throw herself on the mercy of the inspectors, giving them a fresh trail to follow. Even if he left now and rode to the nearest port, she could make it back to London by tea tomorrow and already have the hounds racing to the sea before he even booked passage.

He'd given her a gun and time: a choice. Had she not been so bitter minutes before, deprived of her chance to fight for her life? She could marry him, throw herself into the power of an escaped convict, a man judged mad, her former mentor and, most recently, savior.

Or she could fight her way out. Clarice raised the revolver and aimed right at the back of Lecter's head. The sound of the hammer was loud in her ears. The shattering glass would scar her forever, but it was a clean shot. And while it might not hit him squarely in the skull, it would kill him sooner rather than later.

They were at an impasse, now that there was time for such courtly things as decisions rather than pure survival. And either the marriage bed or coffins awaited them. Death or life, they were still intertwined. _Some of our stars_ …

Clarice lowered the revolver. As if sensing her stalling, Lecter turned and looked up at the window. She did not try to hide her weapon, clear that a choice hadn't been made. His expression never changed. He tipped his hat and returned to the conversation.

Facing the room, warm and welcoming despite being barren. Even empty little inn rooms designed to be blank enough for stranger's comforts were more lived-in than her flat in London. There was a prettyish needlepoint hanging on the wall, obviously done by the aforementioned sister below stairs and there were flowers in a vase next to the bed. Two small things that indicated life-Starling had never done anything like that. Her certificate had hung on the wall in a frame above the heater, the glass growing smokey on the bottom from the steam of the machine. And by the end, it had been a mocking thing, like a portrait of who she was when it was earned growing old and sickly while she, still pretty and young, matched it only on the inside.

And who was she, Starling? She didn't even know herself and here she was on the cusp of giving that name up. What good had it done her? Clarice Starling, what did that mean to anyone? Her name was in the hands of thousands in the form of articles when she was mentioned, used as kindling or fish wrapping, perhaps to line a birdcage. Tossed away without a second glance, and still, in those cases, it got more use.

Clarice Starling of the American Starlings, daughter of a dead cowboy and a washer girl. Starling, struck out from the hospital books, a black mark Mr. Krendler had made through the name.

She and her surname had been passed from hand to hand, Clarice never able to stop the travel, only control, slightly, the way she landed from one place to the next. And here she was, smarting from the latest impact.

She could not feel the warmth of her parent's homespun wisdom-they're experience would have never gotten this far. There was no hand to guide her now. Her own tightened around the gun. Just her, just her choice. _Who am I?_

Clarice was a woman who had run barefoot through freezing English rain to save one lamb. A girl who had crawled through tunnels, over walls, marched through asylums and a mad man's house to save a young woman from death and flaying. She had snuck, and searched and shot on the orders of lesser men in hopes that her actions, like a ripple in a pond, might reach another soul and help them. Save them.

Clarice was a woman who had stolen a dead bride's cloak, a merchant's wagon, and her sometimes employer's invitation to save a life-no matter the quality of man that life sustained. Despite being mired and choked by death all around her, Clarice Starling had always _always_ chosen life.

In reality, her choice had been made the moment she had taken Dr. Lecter's hand that night. Or perhaps even earlier, when she had shot up from her creaking brass-framed bed and stormed to Mr. Crawford's abode with her key and determination.

Clarice undressed and opened the trunk with purpose, rooting around in the new, lovely gowns for something suitable. She pulled out a dress that was more yellow than gold, and thought it would do for the type of venue they had secured.

She ate the dinner sent up to her room quickly, more because she knew she ought than any real hunger. The sun peaked and began its descent as she changed. Lecter had done a fine job in dressing her, no doubt at least knowledgeable about a woman's clothes and their ties. Though she did realize half her aches came from the loosely tied corset that nearly fell off when she got to it. She had slouched for hours in it and felt the ramifications in her bones.

Clarice would, as his wife (how natural the term came to her thoughts without pause), have to rob him of the delusion that it was a fabric torture device as she had seen many magazines complain. Reaching behind with a sharp tug, it straightened her spine, giving her relief and a little more resolve. She patted the silk-covered whalebone fondly before slipping on her wedding gown.

Clarice was at once herself, and not herself. She couldn't quite believe that she was here, in a Scottish inn preparing for an afternoon wedding where she was the bride. It was as if there was some other Clarice Starling here, tying a silk gown on, and fixing the pleats, admiring the lace on the sleeves, feeling clean in her clean clothes. And yet she still made the motions and made do with what she had. She had more than enough practice in that.

The young daughter found her again just as she pulled out a thin evening shawl. It wasn't nearly gauzy enough to be a true veil, but it was translucent and stained a lovely cream that would complement her gown. The scalloped edges would fall pleasantly around her shoulders and the tiny gold birds would give some decorations to the rather plain ensemble. Fitting too, that her namesake adorn her whilst she was discarding it at last. After all, she would only do this once. It would do.

"The gentleman asks if you'll be coming down, miss."

Clarice, looking into the mirror, ignoring her reflection in favor of watching her hands pinning the shawl to her hat. "Yes, please tell him I will be down presently. If you could take my trunk with you? We won't be needing the room after all."

Before she left, Clarice lifted the wildflowers from the vase, dabbing at the stems with the washbasin towel to dry it. Clutching her makeshift bouquet, Clarice carefully picked her way down the staircase, the veil over her face casting the world in a haze.

Dr. Lecter was placing gold coins into the matron's hands, talking quietly with her large, gruff husband. From what she saw, the payment was more than a few hours in the room and a bowl of stew warranted and was perhaps for the silence.

"Are you sure you'd not rather stay, sir?"

"Thank you, ma'am, but no. I must get my bride home as soon as I may. For her health."

Clarice waited patiently by the door and thanked the owners quietly. The inn keeper's wife declared her very pretty, and patted her hand gently, wishing felicity and quick recovery for her head. The doctor led her out onto the road but did not touch her. "It's a small walk to the chapel. After spending the whole day in the carriage I thought it might be beneficial unless you find it too cold."

"I am well," she assured, tugging her gloves on tighter. Gathering up her gown and coat train, they started towards the church.

"I must thank you again."

"For?"

"My life. You've spared it a second time."

"Some might say I merely saved my own."

"Some people will simply state we are in love."

Clarice only paused slightly in her step at his echoed words. He'd teased her thus once before. Had she been too blind to see it then, so blind to everything…

No. She would not deceive herself that this was some clandestine romance. Such a notion cheapened their connection, she felt. It was so much more, whatever they were. More understood than acknowledged, Clarice recalled once more.

The chapel was just as small as she imagined as Lecter held open the red door for her. The pews had no separation for class, there were no such distinctions in the village below. and instead were roughly hewn and cramped. By the altar the vicar stood, helping his wife and another young man who would witness light the candles. It seemed Dr. Lecter had been busy while she decided and dressed. Or he had sent word ahead, anticipating her actions. Well, she had ample time to question him.

The introductions were made quickly, though later Clarice would never be able to recall the name of the man who bound her to the monster. She merely stood at her side of the altar, staring up at the only-slightly tarnished gold cross nailed to the back wall behind the pulpit. Clarice was herself and not herself. She knew what she was doing, knew she _wanted_ to do it, and on some superficial levels _had_ to do it, but it was as if her brain was catching up with the rest of her consciousness. Where was the fear? The constant self-doubt and dilemma that always plagued her when choosing a course of action? Where had it been since the inspectors upturned her flat and found the fake letter and perfume?

She was drawn out of such reveries by the vicar beginning, calling the meager five gathered to hear a dearly beloved congregation. Clarice glanced at her groom and to her surprise saw him solemn and serious. His hat and coat being held by the young man beside him, he even tilted his chin down when the vicar began to pray, though his eyes remained open. It seemed he still had some uses for God, and they were all tied to her. Or perhaps it was _because_ of her. The only other time he had not mocked was her confession in a town not too far from here…

When he took her hand to pledge his vow, Clarice observed just how much larger his was in comparison. It could have very easily wrapped around her neck at any time, however, it simply held her fingers lightly, as if cradling a small injured animal.

"Will you, Victor Harris, have this woman to be your wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony; will you love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her, so long as you both shall live?"

"I will." In the candlelight his eyes pinwheeled with fiery light, points of red ever fixed upon her. It had only been two days after seven years, and yet, she was already so used to them. They had stared back at her from the portraits of her memory, conjured up when she needed courage. After all, she had survived him, what need she fear? She couldn't remember when she began to conjure the doctor, no longer her mother, for strength. Only that it had been a long time...

"Clarice Starling, will you have this man to be your wedded husband to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony; will you obey him," and here Dr. Lecter's countenance finally broke, lips twitching and head tilting to the side, "serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, so long as you both shall live?"

"I will." _Try_ , she added quietly, her own lips twitching. He knew very well what type of bride he was getting. After all her reticule hung heavy around the hand clutching her bouquet. False name or not, Dr. Lecter knew better than anyone.

The doctor gently tugged off her glove and from a breast pocket produced a simple golden ring. She saw that there was etching on the inside, but could not make it out in the low light. He must have bought it in London. Well, perhaps her reputation was merely tarnished rather than in tatters. He slid it along her finger, vowing his unending faithfulness (unlike her mentors, guardians, and employers of his she had no doubt) and worldly goods (of which, she was sad to say she had already confiscated in searching for him, finding at least one of his false names and residences in the city).

He handed her his own band, and after giving the vicar's wife her bouquet, she performed the same service. His palm burned against hers where she held it, and almost in reply, the place on her throat and collar where he had caressed at the ball burned under her dress as well.

"What God has joined, let no man tear asunder." _They haven't yet_ , she thought. Neither time, nor distance, nor law of God or man had pulled them apart yet. They were bound, and these words were just that. Words. The forms placed delicately atop their completed arch; more decoration than foundation. In all these seven years when she had been so utterly alone, she had carried the mark of his kindness about her like a talisman against the bitter encroaching loneliness. Always alone save for the memories. _For better or for worse_ …

"Mr. Harris…" The vicar smiled and gestured, giving the doctor leave to kiss his bride.

Clarice swallowed and waited for him to lift her makeshift veil. She had more than earned this, having paid for it in blood, surviving a house of horrors, and a bullet for want of a kiss in a darkened passage. But Dr. Lecter made no move to unmask her. Instead, he leaned down and pressed his cheek to hers, the corner of his mouth brushing the apple of her cheek. It still left an invisible brand on the flesh, despite being separated by silk netting.

But her hand he held onto, tucking it safely into the crook of his arm while their witnesses stepped forward to shake his hand in congratulations. Clarice, suddenly so very tired, smiled as much as she was able, electing to let her head rest against his arm. It was his hold that was keeping her up now.

They were directed to another room to sign the registry, Lecter going first, writing his new moniker in his elegant copperplate. He stood by her side as she bent over the large book, her veil whispering along the parchment page. Her hand was surprisingly steady as she wrote the letters _Clarice Starling_ for the very last time. She lingered over the curling scrawl as if to bid the name and the girl who has once attached to it goodbye, straightening up and walking out of the church a different woman.

She had been passed on again, dumped from the dregs of her former life into the role of a wife. But this time she had not simply steered the motion of the fall, but had stepped over the edge and jumped. And this landing was much softer than all the others. Still, Clarice was exhausted from the drop.

Their next carriage ride was a quiet one. Now the doctor elected to sit beside her, offering his hand. She held his thumb, and after a few minutes of fighting it, leaned against his shoulder slightly as she began to nod. Every time she glanced up, she found him already staring at her. She asked him why once, and he merely replied, "It is extremely pleasant to look at you."

It was dark when they made it to their final destination. The manor house was surrounded by trees, and from what she could see by torchlight, in front there was a circular drive ringed around a stately looking evergreen and a few well-manicured bushes. The silhouette of the house looked stately against the night, wide and two-storied. Even without seeing the contours and particulars, Clarice knew it was a fine estate.

Their arrival was expected, it seemed, as a few servants waited for them in the doorway, a stable boy immediately going to the spare horse, and leading it around back, whilst a footman assisted the drivers in taking down their luggage. A woman some ten years older than Clarice strutted forward purposefully and introduced herself as the housekeeper, merely bowing to the doctor before encouraging Clarice inside with the promise of a bath and tea.

Within the house, it was clear there had been no moves to add electricity as of yet, and so Clarice and the keeper moved by candlelight illuminating only a small space before and after them, passing still-covered paintings and furniture before they were once again devoured by the darkness. The staff must have arrived only hours before them, Lecter's missive perhaps only a little faster than their coach.

Exhaustion robbed Clarice of her modesty, and despite never having a maid dress or undress her, she allowed the woman to tug at her laces and gently slide the cloth off. It also slew her curiosity, only allowing herself a quick glance around the chamber that was now hers. It was large, she gathered, as the candle's light barely reached the walls from its place in the middle of the room. But beyond that she could not see, nor did she much care. She knew there was a bed and she was eager to be in it. Her head was starting to pound again.

What the bathroom lacked in electric light it more than made up for in the large marble tub with its copper piping. Hot water poured from the tap and filled quickly, steam hovering on the surface to buffer the bath from the cold room. Soon Clarice was left alone with nothing but the comforting lap of water and a cup of tea placed on a nearby table. She didn't even bother with the drink, instead savoring the feel of letting her limbs float in the soothing bath, her head cushioned on a plush towel.

She listened to the sounds of the housekeeper dismantling her trunk and starting a fire in the bedchamber. Vaguely she wondered if she would hear the doctor's footsteps as well, and would find his lithe figure waiting for her when she exited. _Not that I'd be much use_ , she mused. She'd likely fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, and it would be a shame to miss her own consummation.

Amusement turned to wakefulness, and she turned inward, inspecting the sudden heaviness in her chest. It was not dread or fear of the relative unknown, and it was not terror of the man himself. To demand and take would be the height of discourtesy, something he found more loathsome than blood and murder. It was more familiar than that, more like...exhilaration. The same emotion that had gripped her heart when he had pulled her close and lamented about their lack of time, or when she stalked closer to the barn balcony, gun hidden in her skirts.

Now that she had identified the emotion, she was more aware of it, aware of herself and how her heartbeat heavy in her chest as she rose and dried, changed into a nightgown, and crawled into the large four-poster bed, already warmed by a heating pan under the mattress. She sat against the headboard, propped up by plump goose down pillows she was too distracted to appreciate, eyes flickering from the roar of the newly made fire to the shadowy outline of the door.

After all, it _was_ their wedding night.

Clarice drew her knees to her chest under the covers and wrapped her arms around them. Perhaps it wasn't all exhilaration either. There was some reserve. What she had unfortunately witnessed those few times stumbling upon an occupied couple looked rough and quick. She knew what happened; all the parts and physical reactions to stimuli in a clinical sense. But common knowledge of an adult and medical education was vastly different than first-hand experience.

And how did one exactly go about telling your husband whom you almost tupped in a dark hallway that despite the unladylike, and to most unholy, amount of enthusiasm she had for want of him, you were in fact a novice in the art? She scowled at her shadowy bedroom door. She'd loathe to prove all those whelps at the precinct and hospital right when they had-loudly-assumed she'd be a cold fish in bed if anyone ever got the chance. Though the doctor probably already assumed this with the same accuracy as he had the general sum of her history when they first met.

And he wanted her if it wasn't more than obvious by now. Clarice knew when a man wanted her-Mr. Brigham had, poor good soul. And many had wanted to wed her in the beginning, to own the London Tailor's murderer, while others had simply wanted to bed her, either for the macabre air of mystery about her or because of the face that earned her both praise and hatred. And though he was nowhere near such common vulgarity, the doctor _was_ a man. And considering the snickers and winks around his reputation before the arrest, he had experience and talent.

Talent Clarice would like to know. It wasn't that she did not have opportunity, but she was a straight-laced girl, and the risk always seemed far too great for the few moments of pleasure stolen here or there. That, however, couldn't kill her curiosity. She wanted to know what exactly was so wondrous that men dueled over others stealing it from their wives and daughters, that caused poets and composers alike to prattle on endlessly about it, giving it very polite names for polite society. She had a taste of it, between her admiration of Mr. Brigham and her undeniable attraction to the doctor, but it was a game meant for two. Exploration alone would only get her so far.

But the night dragged on, the clock chiming later and later. Soon sleep won out over the anticipation. She attempted to keep her eyes up, to fight as long as she could. At first, she attempted to calculate how many days could have passed between the ball and now. Then she set about examining her ring and the engraved _nisi per mortem_. But it grew harder and harder to concentrate, each time she jerked awake, she had sunk deeper and deeper into her pillows and onto the mattress proper. A few times she awoke to a sound in the hall, a thump from downstairs, or the creak of the manor settling in the night.

Once she swore someone had been in the room, stoking the fire and touching her temple, but by that time the flame was low in the hearth and it was difficult to tell which shadows surrounding her bed were dreams and which were her actual company.


	3. Madam Blue Beard

Clarice came awake in degrees.

First, she was aware of bright light beyond her eyelids, and then of footsteps just beyond her bed. But it was so plush and warm, she had no desire to explore beyond the reach of her quilt, though she did wish there were just a bit quieter. Finally, she was aware the annoying noise was someone setting up dishes and cutlery. That was enough to spike her interest beyond following the siren call of slumber.

Cracking open an eye, she peered out from under the sheets which were pulled over her head, successfully cocooning her in bedclothes and warmth. She saw a girl, different from the one last night, dressed in black setting up a tray at a plush overstuffed armchair set before a pretty paper divider. She removed the silver cover and the smell of sausage and egg wafted along thin trails of steam.

Clarice sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, finally able to take in the room properly. Like the hall she had traveled last night, the bedchamber was still in a state of ill-use. The drop cloths that had covered the furniture were piled in a corner, one still half covering the armoire. The wardrobe door was ajar and she could see her wedding gown hung with care, her other new belongings half hung up, half draped over the open trunk. The vanity mirror was still covered and the top bare save for the few hat boxes piled on top. Passed that she saw a doorway into a modest sitting room that was simply a snowy mountainscape of covered furniture.

The bed she occupied nearly swallowed her, the quilts lush and heavy over her legs, littered with so many pillows, some had dropped to the floor in the course of the night. She shifted, and the creak of the mattress alerted the maid to her conscious state. The girl dipped a curtsy and greeted her with a good morning before hurrying to the trunk and fetching a dressing gown.

Starling….though she wasn't exactly Starling now, did not realize her hunger before she began to tuck into the breakfast. At the first taste of toast and jam, she was ravenous, having survived only on a bowl of stew yesterday and God knew what else before. So great was her desire to nourish herself, she did not have thought to spare for the girl working around her in the room. Most working girls relished in the pleasures of being served, whether it was in the small ways such as a cafe or the astute nods of servants at a dance, they liked to be on the receiving end from time to time. Clarice had always despised it, feeling uncomfortable despite acknowledging the foolishness of the notion.

Now she watched with interest as she ate, admiring the efficiency of the maid in her sorting and hanging, setting up the bottles, jars, and brushes on the vanity, how she carefully displayed the new hats on the shelf in the closet and made the bed with quick tugs and snaps of the sheets. It also allowed the former nurse time to admire how the doctor had prepared for her-day clothes and evening wear, coats and gloves in an array of colors. Even differing styles of underclothes, and (this she noted with some amusement) a parade of leather boots and satin shoes, all finely made. She wouldn't have been surprised if, upon inspection, the articles were imported from Italy. She'd been even less surprised if she were to learn that her slippers with the repaired heel she had worn to the ball were the first thing discarded in their departure from England.

Despite her admiration, however, Clarice refused to let the girl help her dress. Slipping behind the divider, Clarice fingered the silk blouse and separate skirt she had chosen with a little excitement. It was much different than the factory-made cotton frocks she had worn when she wasn't working, and in no way compared to the rough linen of her hospital gowns and pinafores. Such simple and new pleasures, and she intended to savor each one.

It was obvious that Lecter intended to stay here for some time, electing to hide in the law's backyard rather than fleeing to the boatyard and some far-flung country. It was what he had done in London, and it had worked rather well. None but Clarice had suspected it, after all. And who exactly was to reach them now? Mr. Crawford was in the hospital and Paul Krendler was, if not dead, as good as gone.

For these men, she felt only a ping of emotion, like a clock chiming in a far off room. She was not yet ready to fully examine the magnitude of their situation and her relation to it. Clarice had her own to contend with. She decided to think about it tomorrow.

She finished buttoning up her brocade vest and was choosing her footwear when motion from the window caught her eye. She peered through the slightly frosted glass and spared a second to admire the lovely view of the forest and stables before focusing on a singular dark figure below.

Her husband stood at the entrance of the stables, not only dressed for the day, but for the road. Where Clarice was uncertain, he was obviously easy in having and ordering his staff, nodding and making conversation with an older man dressed in thick but plain clothes that bespoke of his profession in the stables, in his hands the reigns of the stolen horse. In the doctor's, he held a leather folio.

Her brows knit. He was leaving? Snapping the buttons of her boots, Clarice made her way into the hall, searching for the stairs. It took her a few wrong turns before she found a door leading outside. She followed the sounds of voices to the stables.

Lecter was now joined by the housekeeper as well, giving instructions in a pleasant tone as the woman nodded. As she drew closer, Clarice realized she couldn't understand a word they were saying--she didn't speak Gaelic.

The man himself caught her eye and bowed slightly, bidding her good morning.

"Good morning. Are you taking a ride?" The horse snuffled at her sleeve, and then her hair. The warm puffs of breath were pleasant against her skin, and Clarice suddenly wished she had paused to grab her coat. Snow had not yet fallen, but it would soon.

"I am for London this morning."

"Right now? We have just escaped. Do you make it a habit to go across the country multiple times in the span of a few days?" The horse continued its inspection and Clarice decided it was best to warm her fingers by stroking his nose rather than let him get the idea it was acceptable to chew at her hair or clothes.

"No, neither do I wish to leave you alone so soon." The doctor glanced about at their audience and nodded to the house. Without a word, the stablemaster and housekeeper bowed and retreated a respectable distance. "There is some small business I must complete before we are officially settled." He indicated the folio he held.

Clarice recalled in her hazy recollection of the barn Dr. Lecer's words to Margot. _All it takes is someone who can copy write well._ "What are you giving Lady Verger?"

The doctor smiled. "Very good. A will, stating her brother leaving all his holdings and inheritance to her, as well as a note. I beg forgiveness, but I must take the credit for your dispatching of Verger and his companions."

"You? But no one else saw you there! It will put them on the trail." And waste all her hard work. Her head throbbed a little at the thought.

"Indeed, but in the wrong direction. Jack Crawford is probably searching every poorhouse in London for you by now, and even he will be able to put two and two together between the fire and your disappearance. With this, I will be able to mislead them with part of the truth. They will think I have absconded with you and more than my fair share of trinkets from the mansion to France. Busy over the channel, they will not think to look over the border, if they even bother."

Clarice felt the old habit of defense rise in her throat like bile before the truth of his words soothed the ache. He was right, they would all be more than willing to believe Lecter stole the object of his obsession and some wealth like a thief in the night and ran as far as he could from danger, rather lingering about it. They would assume her raped and dead, in whatever order tickled their fancy at the moment, and she'd have a little tidy, tragic, and completed file in the piles of hell littering Crawford's desk. That was when he got out.

"Mr. Crawford is in hospital."

"Ah. Well, that gives us even more time." Lecter carefully stepped around any sort of gloating or even joy at the fact that his nemesis was ill. If it was for her sake, she was grateful.

"I should come with you then. I know what they'll be looking for to try and find you."

But the doctor was already shaking his head. "Better you stay here and rest. Your bleeding has stopped, but that wound is not to be taken lightly. I've already put you at enough risk traveling as we did."

"You'd be safer with me."

"Madam, you have already proven that without a doubt. But I ask you to content yourself with merely telling me what you think I ought to know, rather than accompanying me."

"Well, first of all, you should avoid Gracechurch Street. They've already commandeered that flat."

Lecter's brow rose. "Oh?"

"You furnished it with a harpsichord from the same maker as the one in your house before-and the one you had in the manor in Italy."

To this, he grinned. She saw the doctor had an indentation in his left cheek when he really smiled. "You sniffed out my spending habits."

"It was the only real way to track you."

"Did you tell Mr. Crawford?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He dismissed it."

"Mmm. Anything else to keep a tail off?"

"Are you taking this horse?"

"I am."

"Then you need to change its saddle." Clarice pointed to the design stamped into the leather. It was a crest, but it wasn't gilt in gold, nor was it metal pounded into the pommel of the saddle as other aristocrats might do. This was simply burned into the leather after the saddle was bought by some low tier tradesman. "It's Krendler's seal."

"Mr. Krendler's family has a coat of arms?"

"No. Mr. Krendler has a coat of arms. He designed it, I remember seeing a few sketches in his office when I was pulled in." She had focused on the drawings as they had waved the fake letter in front of her face, shouting questions. The bloody thing wasn't even written in the cursive Lecter favored-his hand was elegant obviously trained by a tutor for noble purposes, while whoever had written the fake missive was obviously putting his school-house lessons to use. Between Inspector Krenlder boasting about a forthcoming title and the drawings, Clarice had realized he had made the crest in an attempt to emulate a long history of aristocracy.

A bubble of laughter escaped her lips as she considered the lopsided griffon now. How sad.

Dr. Lecter joined in her amusement and patted the beast's flank. "Thank you, my dear. I'll use a different saddle and have this one put to pieces. I'll sell the horse, too." He gestured back to the stable master and housekeeper, giving the man directions in Gaelic. Then he held out his hand to the housekeeper. She handed him a ring of keys that Lecter in turn lifted before his wife on one finger. Clarice took the keys, the iron cold in her already chilly fingers. The housekeeper told her she'd go and fetch her coat, leaving the couple alone.

"And these are now yours."

"You are leaving and gifting me keys to the house? Which rooms ought I not go into?"

"All rooms are at your disposal."

"No, that is not how it goes. You're not playing your part right," she echoed his words the night of the ball. Clarice gestured to the manor. Now she could see the wide structure was a lovely sandstone color, with ivy crawling up the sides in elegant arrangements, and a large garden sleeping at the back. "You leave your new wife with keys and bar her from one room to test her."

Lecter finally grasped the concept and breathed a chuckle. "I see. I'm afraid I must disappoint you, I have no chamber with my unfortunate former brides, nor will I inspect the cleanliness of the keys when I return. This is yours, you are its mistress. I would ask, if you would be so kind, to go through the ledger books and make a list of which shops I should avoid, less someone pick up where you left off."

"I shall, sir." The stable keep returned with the horse outfitted in a new, plain saddle. Lecter took the reins and donned his hat. Before he mounted she made to ask why he had not come to her last night. He had shown such great interest at the ball… But as she took a breath to ask, she couldn't conjure up the words. Instead, she inquired, "Is there anything else I can do?"

Lecter knew that was not the question she meant to put to him, and he seemed to debate for a moment whether he ought to challenge her on it. He decided against it. "Sleep, and lots of it. Rest when you are tired, madam, and push yourself no further than light activity. I expect to return to a nicely healing wife."

"You shall."

The housekeeper returned with her coat then. Buddled from the cold, she steadied the horse and held his folio as Lecter swung into the saddle. She handed him the papers, and he caught her hand, bending to kiss. His mouth was searing against her cold flesh. She watched as his figure disappeared down the road, and with a sigh, returned to the house.

* * *

Clarice slept just as ordered. She indulged in midday naps while he was gone, returning to her room often to curl up in her armchair by the fire, or lounge at the window, wrapped in a shawl, watching the first flakes of snowfall until her eyelids dropped with them. In fact the first few days alone in the manor she kept mostly to her rooms.

She went through her gifted trousseau, a little stunned at her sartorial choices. She hadn't imagined so much could fit into two small trunks and wondered if the Doctor had sent most of it from London while she was unconscious. She lingered over the evening gowns with their gathered bustles and daring necklines, holding them up to herself in the long mirror. She felt none of the foolishness and shame she had when she would attempt to situate herself in front of shop windows to admire the displayed wears on her own person, or when she would purchase etiquette and dancing books under a false name and hid them under her mattress.

Clarice liked pretty things, and in the solitude of this house, she would not hide it. Who would she hide it from?

But she was not a naturally idle person. Want of purpose won out and she decided to take inventory of the house. Dressing smartly, and adding a belt to hold a pocket watch and the ring of keys, every day she set out to explore a different room in the house. The few servants were still unpacking, and she found them an amiable group. The butlers and maids of the Verger estate had always been cold when she had visited, and Mr. Crawford's housekeeper was a gruff surly woman. But this staff seemed in high spirits, always armed with a smile and soft greeting before scurrying about their business, and leaving her be.

Everything was slowly but surely being opened and uncovered for their stay, but still, Clarice wandered through white robbed furniture, like weaving between ghostly headstones in a graveyard.

She started on the first floor, dipping in and out of the sitting room, the sunroom, and music room, stopping to admire the piano as it was uncovered and tuned, having never witnessed someone handle the instrument who knew what they were doing. The butler even encouraged her to hold the tuning fork as he worked.

There were two studies, a tea room, and a grand library which overlooked the hill they were on down into the valley below and it's frozen lake. It would become her new favorite room because of the comfortable chaise by the window, perfect for lazy afternoons. The dining hall was grand and echoey, but she was happy to see it untouched, and the maid setting up a smaller, but equally elegant dining room. It would be awkward to have to shout conservation over that ridiculously long dining table when the doctor returned.

While she thought the house was nearly done, when she visited both the attic and larder, she found more and more boxes. Paintings, linens, vases, and other trinkets tucked away, sets upon sets of dishware and cases of silver and candelabras. It would take a week for all of this to be sorted and counted!

The second floor was mostly bedchambers and a few empty rooms that had yet been assigned a purpose. Lord, what did one do with so much space? Slipping out of one such chamber after gazing up at the snowing sky for a few calm moments, she started down the hall, away from her own bedroom. There was only one door left-the master chamber.

Placing her hand on the doorknob, she turned and found it locked. Clarice hesitated and made to go. _All these rooms are mine. And he claimed to hide nothing._ She did not doubt his sincerity, and should not without any proof of falsehood. Yet, without his presence, doubt did creep in.

She recalled what Crawford told her-told all when the discussion of Dr. Lecter came up. That the officers that had investigated his manor house were no longer officers. One married rich and would not leave his home. The other went to the sea and now wrapped fish for a living. They did not speak of it. As she stood, looking at the dark wood of the door, her mind stitched a silver thread between two squares of her experience on the quilt of her conscious. Crawford and the gone officers, Chilton and the photo of the mutilated nurse. Clarice had wanted to be an aide to an investigator and a nurse, and both men had spooked her with...with her now-husband, both almost manic with morbid glee to extract her fear and feast on it.

She shook her head. Tomorrow. She'd consider it tomorrow. Back to the present.

It was not as if she wanted to paw through his things and papers, she wasn't as rude as all that, curious though her nature was. But the locked door…

It took three tries with the keys before she found the skeleton. Hesitating, she decided to do it quickly, like an injection, and flung the door open. Within was a bedchamber...and nothing more. No knives displayed gruesomely, no remains or trails of blood. Not even an article of clothing left laid out from his departure. Just a bedroom. The curtains were dark maroon both on the four-poster bed and windows. The writing desk was clear, his pens cleaned and set in a straight line.

She tried the same method with the bathroom, and only found a mirror of her own. Nobody was left as a grisly discovery here. For a moment, the contents of Jame's house flashed before her eyes, the decaying body of his landlady in his tub, and her stomach roiled. It felt like swearing an oath in a church-such thoughts were improper inside this house, encroaching on the peace.

A normal house, a real wedding. A comfortable but simple life in the country. _Simplicity._

Clarice found herself content with the idea, and returned to the hall, locking the door behind her.

Exploration complete, she once again found herself without much to do. She had already made a list of the shops Dr. Lecter had patronized that he should hold on buying from. And she had rested so much, she felt she might never fall asleep again from the boredom of it.

A part of her wondered if Lecter had planned it this way. Trap the active little bird in the house until she was desperate for his company again. Clarice had to admit it was a good plan, except there were two pretty mares in the stable and tack enough to take one and run. Not that there was anywhere to run to.

So it came to be that she was drawn outside, as she always was. Clarice loved to in the open air and had loathed London for its crowded streets and buildings reaching up to cover the sky from view. As a girl there had been miles and miles of country road for her to race down on her father's old steed, open flat land with nothing but the horizon as a border. Even on her cousin's farm, she had been able to walk in communion with the vast British sky, now marked by the rolling hills and rocks so tempting to climb. She had spent so many days on Hannah. The nearly blind horse was a poor herder and even worse racer, but Clarice had attempted anyway.

And here there was an open field and forests again. The white snow blanketed everything, and the chill had successfully invaded, keeping her from any serious wanderings. But the stable was warm enough, and the smell of tack and leather familiar. She occupied herself with introductions to the two mares while she combed their coats and fed them. The stable hand and his boy were probably in the kitchens enjoying lunch.

One of the pair, a dappled girl named Makaria, took a shine to Clarice, wanting to snuffle her hair every time she passed. "What do you say to a ride," Clarice asked and got a stamp of approval from the steed.

Clarice went searching for the tack and found it tucked into the back of the stable, having to edge about barrels of feed and bound hay. Why someone would put the equipment in the back rather than hang it for easy use was beyond her. In fact, the whole stable was in a state of disarray.

Giving up on the promised ride, Clarice shrugged out of her coat and rolled up the sleeve of her blouse. It was some doing in her heeled boots, but she managed to move the boxes and barrels aside to clear a path. Then, with arms full of bridles and cinches she began moving the tack towards the door. There were even hooks for them here! Next were the saddles. She placed them gently onto the hay piles and began sliding the racks to the front of the stables. The dirt here was moist from the slosh of water in the troughs, and the heavy wooden structures stuck more than once. Her fine boots slipped, and her hem was three inches muddied. Ah well, this skirt and blouse would be regulated to walks and perhaps gardening when the snow melted...and if she didn't kill the flowers.

It was going quite well until the stablemaster and his hand came back, and nearly fell to their knees, seeing the mistress covered in dirt and working. They relayed to her that the master had told the entire staff not to plague their new mistress with duties and questions, that she was healing and needed rest and they should set up the house to the best of their abilities. Clarice, like a keen beagle, finally smelled something worse pursuing: purpose. Once she assured them that their positions were safe-that no neglect of duty had caused her to do this they insisted on finishing the job themselves, arranging the stable however she wished.

Standing by Makaria and patting her nose, she instructed and the men obeyed. She found it not so awkward as she once assumed, ordering staff. Between her experience and the master's training, they managed to set up the entire stable before the sun went down. She even went through the feed, explaining which makers were the best and what farms they ought to be buying from.

She was grateful for her bath that night. The housekeeper brought up her dinner tray as she dried her hair by the fire, and Clarice informed her that the mistress was quite healed. "If there is work that needs my attention, I would like to know."

"The master wanted you to get your rest."

"I am rested. I think I'll never sleep again." She took a strip of cloth and began to braid her hair around it. "I'm ready to work."

And she found she liked it. Moreover, she was suited to it. She had spent all her life following orders, keeping every contrary thought locked deep inside-scolding herself before her superiors could for thinking she could do better than those with supposed experience and wisdom. But once Clarice began, she found she _did_ know best. The first order of business was the household budget. Whilst she now _could_ buy quality, name and price did not always _mean_ quality.

And there was much to buy. When she had been traded around the police department as an aide here and there (never for Crawford), she had spent many hours doing the paperwork for the fraud department. She could spot a fake faster than anyone, and thus almost all of the china, three sets of silverware, and a crate of linen were to be donated in the village down the hill. They had come with the estate when it was bought, and almost all were fakes.

She tightened and cut, and still allowed for taste and some indulgence. She was almost gleeful when she had the maids bring down the crates of wine glasses and found them all broken, for it meant she was able to choose a new set. She'd always loved the look of crystal in the fine shops-and now she'd have some of her own.

While she did lean heavily on learning the particulars from the housekeeper, Clarice found herself a quick study in running a household. Soon she was rearranging whole rooms, swapping out furniture and paintings, making the place her own. Making it a home. It certainly was more lived in that her little flat, and whether that was due to the abundance of decorations, or the pleasure in which they were arranged, mattered little.

For the first time in her life, Clarice was enjoying herself. Much like all the other nurses, she had joined in on the grousing about fine ladies occupying their time picking out flowers to arrange into pots while they had to shuffle for a living. But even as she grumbled, she'd envied them. She had a great appreciation for fine things, like language and literature, and art. But there wasn't much of that in the hospital or the factory district.

Now Clarice saw it was a real job. It was she who was called to delegate, make decisions, and fix problems. She was smart and efficient and did indeed find the humor in the fact that now with no job and a ring she could showcase her leadership abilities, as opposed to the hospital where things and problems lay stagnant, worked around rather than ever properly addressed.

This was how her husband found her on his return one afternoon, a few hours before dinnertime. Clarice was overseeing the moving of the grand piano from one end of the house to the other. They had pulled blankets from the attic to cushion the great instrument whilst they slid it from room to room, and Clarice was giving directions to the two young downstairs boys from her vantage in the hall.

"I was told, Madam, I would find you in the drawing-room. However, it seems I've misplaced that particular chamber since I was last here."

Startled by his silent approach, Clarice whirled to find her husband behind her, hat in hand, coat hem and boots still dusty from riding. He gestured to himself and explained, "I thought it best to greet you before I absconded for a bath and a change. Forgive me for staying longer than I had anticipated."

"As you gave me no date, there was no expectation," she forgave. Her eyes lingered on his smirking face. She had not forgotten its contours but perhaps now had the time to appreciate it's aristocratic planes, darkened slightly by the shadow he'd need to shave.

"Perhaps. I was unsure, at first, if I had returned to the right manor. Thank you for leaving the front door where it was, at least."

Unconsciously her hand closed possessively over the keys. "I took you at your word, sir, giving me free rein of the rooms."

"I did, and I do. I trust your taste." Clarice understood the weight of such a comment from him and allowed herself a small, proud smile. "Though, why is my piano being evicted?"

"I moved the library."

"The...entire library?"

"Yes. Well." Explaining it to the housekeeper, it had seemed such a grand idea at the time. Now- "You see, the sitting room was in the east hall and the library in the west. Which means that one would more often need to read by candlelight no matter what time of day. But if it is in the east wing, you take full advantage of the sun on this hill for work, and you can see the sunset when you sit for tea, in the west."

He smirked at her enthusiasm. "I see. A very good idea, then. I shall leave you to it." Dr. Lecter turned towards the stairs and hesitated. "My bedchamber…?"

"Is where you left it." She watched him ascend the stairs and smiled when her addition of "for now" caused him a momentary pause.

She asked the housekeeper if the master would take his dinner in his room, and upon confirmation, decided to do the same as was her usual. Bathed and wrapped tightly in a robe, Clarice had settled in her armchair by the fire, feet tucked under her and curled up, enjoying the last of her wine and a book snuck from the library shelves.

Then there was a knock and the sound of her husband's voice requesting entrance.

Frozen, Clarice finally found her voice and bid him enter. She tossed her book aside and stood, wrapping her robe tighter about herself. Why had she not thought he might come now when all was settled in London and he finally free? The truth was that she had become so accustomed to this house, to her new way of life and so quickly, she had forgotten how she bought it. With a ring and a vow to serve, which included nocturnal company. It was natural, a common occurrence between spouses, even spouses as peculiar as they were.

Though she shied from thinking it duty. She'd never warmed to a duty like the heat encasing her now.

Still, it seemed that there should be more ceremony than this. Her cheeks flushed now with more embarrassment than exhilaration at being caught unawares. Clarice loathed, even at this age and as knowledgeable as she was, being caught ignorant.

The doctor entered, not robed and seeking her nightly attention, but in clean shirt sleeves and trousers. The maroon brocade of his vest made the pinwheels of red in his eyes seem brighter. He carried with him a medical bag made of leather so freshly stitched, she could smell the pleasant scent from across the room. "Good evening. I came to inspect the wound if you'll let me."

Oh. Clarice touched her head. It had been healing well, she thought. It hadn't reopened, and she's been very careful washing and combing the hair on that side. She'd taken to wearing it in a braid favoring the left side to compensate for the lack of hair the wound caused until the scab fell and new locks grew in.

She carefully perched on the edge of her armchair, tucking her feet under the skirt of her nightgown and robe. With careful fingers, he shifted her bound hair from one shoulder to the other and inspected the long laceration, questioning her on headaches (frequency and intensity). "And you rested?"

"I did, sir. You can ask the staff."

"I do not think you a liar."

"Anymore." She remembered how politely he told her to feast on crow after bringing him false documents in the asylum.

He raised a brow at that, still examining the scabbing by the firelight. His breath smelled like sherry as it whispered across her forehead. "Well, you are without influence now. I trust that you are a naturally honest creature as your frankness lends."

"Without influence? You are here."

"Ah, but I do not hold your future before you like a boy would a piece of meat to a dog. You are no canine and I desire no pet."

"You are my husband, doctor. Is that not exactly your due? To have-" _Me_ "- my future in your hands?"

His fingers paused, and with his thumb, he tilted her face up to look at him. "Do you feel dangled, Mrs. Lecter?"

The name slipped down to settle in her stomach, seeping warmth all the way to her toes. _Mrs. Lecter, the name so reviled she might as well be called Madam Monster but she cannot find vitriol_. These hands, after all, were bloodstained by his crimes still, even as they gently touched her skin. With every movement, she expected his fingers to finally wander, and seek out a more familiar touch. She was half disappointed when they did not. "No."

"I gave you command of your surroundings to avoid such thoughts. Have I failed in this endeavor?"

"No, you haven't. But as my husband-"

"I am allowed the privilege of knowing you in private life. Something I believe I once remarked was desirable."

She flushed a little, more from the fact that his hands had not yet left her face than his words. Perhaps she didn't need ceremony after all. "I was merely...speculating on common understandings of the matrimonial state, Mr. Lecter."

"Common. I believe we are both far and above _common_. You should have never feared it." Finally, he smirked. "And I believe if you are to address me as such, madam, _doctor_ will still do. I did not attend medical studies for years and rob a cradle to be 'mister'ed by my young wife."

He finished his examination and let her fix her hair. "It is healing well. Still, I will monitor your headaches." He bent and searched in his bag. After a moment he pulled out a small wooden box and held it to her. "I've also brought you a gift."

"A gift?" She took the box, and her fingers itched with excitement, but Clarice controlled it. "You've already gifted me a wardrobe and more slippers than I have occasion to wear."

"Clothing my wife is a duty, not a gift."

 _Duty._ Perhaps this was to soften the edge of hers. "I see. But what is the occasion?"

"I left you hours after our wedding for almost two weeks. Necessary, but not very gallant. Amends, madam."

"Oh." Still, she did not open it.

The doctor tilted his head. "Do you not want it? You don't even know what it is."

"Forgive me, I did not mean to be ungrateful. I simply do not wish to set a precedence." Her thumb stroked the golden latch of the box. "I do not need to be plied with trinkets and gifts to earn my understanding." _Or anything else._ "I bear no ill will over your departure."

"Thank you. But I still like to spoil you, for the simple fact that you are doggedly and determinedly unspoiled."

"Of that, you have no fear. I am worse than the most pampered house cat," she declared in her silk- _silk_ -nightgown and heavy velvet robe. Having censured his action enough to relieve any guilt on her part, she opened the box. Within was a simple pendant of a cabochon emerald on a thin gold chain, nestled in velvet with its matching earrings and simple chain bracelet.

Her fingers ghosted over the costly items, lips parting in wonder, not at the amount obviously spent, by the deep fire the cut gave the gems in the low light from the hearth. It was beautiful, and she whispered as much.

"Then it meets your approval? I think they will do very nicely on you-it will bring out the flecks in your eyes. There's a bit of green in them in the sunlight, you know."

"I do." Her mother had always boasted so, that she nearly had green eyes if it weren't for the stable brown dominating her irises. "Thank you. I like them very much."

"I am glad. I have a few more gifts arriving when they are finished." He touched the side of his nose. "But those are a secret for now. You'll simply have to be patient and attempt to reject them later."

Clarice smiled and stood, coming close. "If they are as beautiful as this, perhaps I will accept with slightly more ease. _Slightly_." She hated to think that his ploy of a gift would so easily calm her to the idea of letting him into her bed, but she did not feel any more of the apprehension that had lingered when he first knocked. It was, in reality, not so much the gift, but the easy conversation about it. How well she fell into cadence with him, how their teases and frankness of nature were so well matched.

Still, she could not find the words to proceed, to inquire on whether his visit was for the night or merely the hour. And it seemed she did not need to when he took her hand. His flesh felt fever-hot to her chilled fingers. "You're cold, my dear. Into bed with you."

She nodded the weight that her new name had caused suddenly heavier and warmer in her belly, spreading to more than just her toes. When she made to lead him to her mattress, he stopped her with a gentle tug. The doctor lifted her frigid hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. She felt his lashes against her skin as he closed his eyes and inhaled her scent. His gaze lifted to her long moments before he let her go.

"Good night, Mrs. Lecter."

"P...Pardon?" She watched him gather his bag numbly. He was...leaving?

"You need your rest, madam. Though you swear you've received it, I doubt our definitions of the act are similar, and I am determined for that wound to heal. Go on. I will add another log to the fire before I go."

And he did just that. She wandered to bed, still a little disoriented at the sudden shift in mood, and watched him stoke the flames in her hearth. Then with a small bow, he left her sitting on her covers, dazed and unsure if she was relieved or vexed. Sleep came before that conclusion.


	4. The Lonely Grave of Starling

Life continued on in the manor with the master home. Clarice continued her mission of fixing the house, now working around a husband who was easy with absconding from room to room when there was work to be done. He complimented her again on her taste and her logic in moving the chambers of the house, and his wife was rather unsure what to do with the pleasantry. She was unused to an honest compliment, as flustered as she was when he had called her tough and frank their first few meetings. Truth, to her, had become a hard thing to be respected and feared. Gentle truths were not her forte as the doctor came to realize.

And now that he was not testing her, breaking her to make her stronger, preparing her for the cesspool that London society was, he was liberal with them.

Their days consisted of much conversation, hours spent in one room or another, simply speaking. There was so much left unsaid between them, unfettered by words, yet there was so much about one another they did not know. The doctor liked to hear her talk, and to her great pleasure never censured her, or reduced her ideas and opinions to charming female observations that made her an 'interesting girl' and no more, like a display at the Great Exhibition; a marvel of novelty to be entertaining and then disregarded after acquisition.

And Clarice did talk; talk more than she ever had with a captive, engaged audience. Sometimes she would speak so freely about her opinions, she did not realize she owned them until they were in the air. There would be moments Clarice felt a little outside herself, as if she were watching this married Clarice in her crisp white blouse and smart black skirts say things aloud she never thought Starling might say, but finding them true none the less. More often than not she would pause to consider her own words, an apology or explanation quick on her lips, only to find that what she had said was too true to excuse away.

And there her husband would be, always beside her, sitting down, or perhaps helping her with whatever little task she had; listening and replying in even tones. He was never really rattled, and Clarice admired his composure.

When they talked of recent events, the barn, Mr. Brigham, or even Mr. Crawford, Clarice recalled the memories more like actors on a stage than actually living them. Perhaps everything that had happened was so enormous she could not comprehend it, or perhaps she was now so apart from that dirty dark life that she was able to see it with indifference.

Clarice told him of the very real injustices she had experienced at Krenlder's hands. Rumors started, slander and opportunities for jobs and partnerships that ought to have been hers by merit, and could have been hers despite her gender, withheld for the very same reasons. All because she was clever, and she would not submit to be a conquest like the other girls that she heard tale of. Those girls that had worked for him in his office or his home, that very suddenly came with child...and then very suddenly were without by 'luck'. And then, altogether, very suddenly gone without a word. Finally, Clarice had the freedom to say out loud what society deemed too gruesome and course to put word to, things seen and ignored.

Dr. Lecter asked her about Texas, and she revealed in being able to describe America. In their rooms with a Scottish winter piling up white and gleaming outside, she warmed them with descriptions of her home's wide open plains, the flat grassy lands, and the farms that stretched for miles and miles. She could almost feel the warmth of the sun as she painted a butter yellow and gold picture with her recollections, and amused him with the times she was less than a lady. A little girl, daughter of no one, she herself someone of little consequence was not looked on with censure when she would take her father's aging horse and race past the trees in the forest, or run across their small patch of land barefoot with her brothers and sister. No one would click their tongues when she learned to braid a whip and nearly took off her own arm trying to use it.

Clarice showed her husband the scar-it was so silver is blended into her pale skin, but it was visible with the short sleeves blouses she tended to favor. He held her wrist gently, passing a thumb over the thin curving line, leaving one of his own that burned her flesh invisibly.

In return, Lecter told her of his own childhood, his own home. Lithuania, a country still finding its own identity. He was a creature of winter and cold, despite his aversion to it. Clarice noticed how he always favored the fire and wondered if his love of candles came not only from the atmosphere of it, but from the warmth. She was proud that her idea of him, aristocratic and noble, had roots in truth. His father had been a count, his mother a lady of some standing in Italy. He had been raised to run part of the country, perhaps marry a woman with a title of her own and step in line for a duke's coronet.

"Is the castle still there," she asked one afternoon, seated before the fire as she altered another blouse's sleeves. "Why did you not come as a count to England? Is it no more?"

The doctor glanced up from his current project, a camera he had ordered in London. Her husband was a desperately curious thing, and he had spent all morning dismantling the contraption-and was now spending the afternoon putting it to rights. "It did me little good, seeing as the law has stripped me of anything official."

Clarice hummed her agreement, and felt nothing at this truth.

"But the title is still there. My Uncle has it now, I believe, though he doesn't reside in Lithuania. I think he has a chateau in France or Spain, with his wife. They did not have children when we last spoke."

"Then who will it fall to?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. It was always settled on me, and when I was young there was still hope that my Uncle might have children, or that I might have brothers." At this he paused, his eyes unfocused in the fire. Then the doctor went back to his parts, picking through the little screws for the right size. "Perhaps when I am dead my son may go back for it."

Clarice raised a brow and wanted to ask where he believed this son might come from, as he had continued his abstinence from her bed. Her wound was healing rather nicely now, and that excuse ran thin. And her nerves about the ordeal were soon turning to vexation. Clarice knew her husband found her attractive; his hands always lingered over hers when she passed him his tea, and about her waist when he led her into dinner in the evenings. Sometimes when they both were seated on the couch, his fingers would graze across her forearms as they spoke. Clarice confessed to herself it was that reason more than the convenience that caused her to favor such sleeves in the dead of winter.

And still, he ended each night with a heated kiss to her knuckles. Did he expect God to bestow a miracle? But even as she thought it, she did not give word. She was not overly eager to have a baby in her belly, and perhaps there was some lingering fear of the unknown there-after all, she knew Lecter the best and the least in the whole world. It was a difficult dichotomy to balance. She believed she knew his soul, what was left of it, but the man was still being translated to her, conversation by conversation, day by day.

He told her about the hunting lodge, and the winter they had been snowed in and cut off with few supplies. About the Russian rebels that had come across them, eager to set up camp in the lodge and torture a few rich nobles. After dinner one night, as they sat before the fire in the western sitting room, he told her about his parents' death and starving. They talked of hunger and hauntings while he traced the lines of her palm with his thumb.

He told her about his sister and spoke the letters of her name aloud for the first time in many, many years. Clarice bowed her head, as if _Mischa_ was their benediction, and watched the flames dance across the gold of his wedding band. She said nothing, but a soft _thank you_. There was nothing else that need be said.

They together, as always, understood each other more than acknowledged.

And because of that, it felt rather natural being with him. This murderer of sixteen, this monster and gentleman all at once-she had never felt...safer. She was not scrambling to make ends meet, nor was she lying awake at night, analyzing her behavior for faults, scanning the rooms the next day for censure and reprimand. The days passed and they wove in and out of conversation as if time were as liquid as wine. More often than not it came as a surprise when the clocks chime the hour for dinner, so engrossed they would be in whatever topic they chose for hours on end. Within the monster's house, Clarice did not feel her life in her hands, a fluttering bird always afraid that this breath was it's last. After all, she had given up that name and symbol with her wedding vows.

Within this safety, more things came uncovered, like digging deep into the earth to find relics and histories. Clarice became an archeologist of her own soul. She spoke without fear thoughts she had once found mortifying to behold. Clarice was protective of the men in her life, as her freshly scared temple boasted. Mr, Brigham, and her father, and even still Mr. Crawford, were men of value, the first two creatures of great bravery and goodness. This was true.

But as Clarice spoke, she laid out her anger towards 's needless death, as his willingness to go to it without even a fight, of Mr. Crawford's careless regard in sending him to it. She hated the situation, and she hated both of them for their parts in creating it.

This was also true.

And her father-oh she would slap the face of any fool daring to degrade her father. Only manners and abject fear had stopped her from performing that duty to Dr. Lecter when they first met. But as she and her husband continued to sketch each other's character from histories and opinions, she found her anger had seeped into the memory of her sire, too. "It wasn't right," she heard herself say. "They weren't right, none of them. They had people depending on them. They had _me_ depending on them. And what did they do? Went and got themselves shot. Mr. Brigham was better than a gangster's bullet, and yet that fool is still walking about while Brigham lies cold in his grave."

Lecter, who was standing below her as she shelved their new additions to the library, held the ladder she stood on, vigilant for any slips. But his eyes glimmered with excitement, knowing she was finally coming upon it. Her memories of home where entertaining enough, but here was the real stuff. "We do not choose how we die, madam."

"Don't we?" She spared him a glance over the pile in her arms. "He didn't have to go. My father-my father! My father knew better. No, he _ought_ to have known better! He'd lived in that dusty little town all his life, married, and had children there who depended on him! And the job was all he thought about. That stupid job-he didn't even have a badge! How he would have gloated over that piece of tin! He wanted it more than he wanted to come home, that's the matter. Decided to die over a few kids stealing from the grocer. My father died over vegetables-what great honor! He never had a lick a' sense when it came to that! Never learned his lesson! Hot-headed, impulsive, and reckless!"

She slammed the books onto the shelf with each word, the last one practically thrown onto the wood, the ladder below her steady, but creaking from the motion. From below, Mr. Starling's mocker now turned friend: "I'm sure he loved you more than the job, Mrs. Lecter. I'm sure he wished nothing but your safety and happiness."

"If I wish for the moon on a string, do you believe it will appear," she snapped. "Wish in one hand and...well. Wishes don't...do not fill bellies." They don't save girls from being shipped overseas, they don't save girls from orphanages, or from choosing between working as a nurse and working on her back. Clarice had wished for so much, and nothing had come from it.

Her husband placed his hands on her waist. Gripping his shoulders, Clarice let him lift her from her perch and return her to the floor. His thumbs caressed her hips through her skirts comfortingly. " _Einai kalytero anthropo apo ton patera toy_ ," he said softly. "Though in this case it would be _gynaika_."

He left her with that. Inside their vast library, she gathered the words from a greek dictionary. That night, alone in her bed, Clarice stared at her canopy and wondered if she truly was a better person than her father. She was alive, it was true. But was that better? She lifted her hand, the dying embers of the fire making the gold wink weakly. She slid it off her finger and examined the etching again.

 _Nisi per mortem_. Only through death. She and this man to whom she was bound was surrounded by death and, if she was frank, were the creators of death. And here they were, alive. They had survived, despite so many attempting to alter that fact. But was that better?

 _They didn't get you too_. Clarice closed her eyes. No one had 'gotten' her, the way Mr. Brigham was got, the way her father was got. Unaware, surprised, less than what they deserved. They hadn't learned, hadn't seen the neglect that came from their superiors. They'd given their trust and loyalty to lesser men and met lesser ends because of it. And if she had bowed to lesser men-let Mr. Krendler have his victory, let them have the doctor's death and her demise in one gluttonous night, she would have died the same way. Not by a bullet, but by a disgrace. By shame.

It was a shame how they died.

But Clarice lived, had outfoxed them all, and still remained true. For her loyalty had not been to an institution or man. It had been to herself-her morals, her sense of justice. She had saved Lady Catherine, she had saved countless people as a nurse and sometimes police aide. She had saved her husband from a dishonorable end. Clarice had seen across the plain of her experience, her father's and her would-be fiancee's, and did something they could not. She'd learned.

And she was better for it.

The next morning, however, saw a quieter Clarice. At breakfast, her eyes were red and she complained of a small headache. Dr. Lecter ordered her rest and respite from their conversation for the day, and more hot chocolate than was probably good for her. She requested he play for her, and he spent hours at the piano for her amusement.

That night she did not even think to feel resentment when her husband came only to check her wound. She was propped up on pillows, still with her shawl wrapped around her for warmth and for some modesty. His gentle touch was a comfort, and she found his low even voice calming her still hurting heart.

"You've been inside too long," he diagnosed, his hand resting on hers. "Tomorrow we will go riding. A bird needs to fly, does it not? You've been too long in your coop."

"But I am no longer a Starling, am I," she pointed out. Dropping her handkerchief which had been her constant companion for hours, she took her hand in his. She had, perhaps, drank a little too much wine at dinner as well, her head was swimming a bit between the tears and the liquor. She slid his gold band off, which time had not yet made natural on his long pale fingers. His, too, had the deadly inscription, she saw as she flipped it over in her palm. "Not that the name has ever been of use. I suppose I'm well rid of it."

Dr. Lecter watched her but said nothing. For a long while, he simply sat with her and held her hand. Clarice then slid his ring back on and raised his hand to her lips, closing her eyes. She rested her mouth against his knuckles more than kissed. He smelled like ink and fresh soap.

Lecter bent and gently kissed her crown and ordered her to rest. Curling under her blankets, she was very suddenly struck with gratitude that she was here, in a room of her own in a house that had become as familiar to her as any place she had found herself. In the depths of her melancholy, she felt safe here-safer than any other place she had been. And whether it was the pleasant feelings she had accumulated in these past weeks or the man down the hall that gave her such security, she really couldn't care.

Curling tighter under the covers, she watched the flames as tears pricked her eyes, though these, perhaps, were not so much from mourning.

* * *

The next morning a note came with her breakfast, requesting her appearance in the stables dressed and ready for riding. Clarice was glad to obey, as the work inside the manor had kept her from the tranquility of the horses. And she knew the doctor was of the same mind: they had devoted a whole day to debating the best equestrian techniques in riding, training, and breeding, she having grown up on a ranch and then a farm where such things were necessary, and he the son of an avid horse breeder in the form of his father, the count. She dressed warmly and hurried outside before her sadness could ruin this as well.

Her husband declared he had another gift for her, and Clarice again admonished him for his spoiling, though with less heat than before. When it came to animals and nature, anything that would aid her enjoyment was welcome to her.

Lecter led Makaria and presented her with his gift: western tack. A high and deep saddle, the customary horn on it's high pommel, and a single reign looped behind the mare's head. Clarice grinned and ran her hands over the fine tan leather. She had missed the safe, sturdy seats of American saddles during her time in England and found it the most contemptible thing to learn side-saddle riding-though she understood the necessity. In Texas, no one cared if they saw the stockings of a cowboy's daughter as she flew past the village. In England, they cared very much if a respectable landlord's ward were in disarray atop her steed.

"About face," the doctor commanded the stablemaster and hand.

The servants turned quickly, and Lecter himself knelt to boost her into the saddle. There was no side, here-she had to swing a leg over and adjust her skirts after. She was glad she had chosen a loose hem rather than some fashionable riding outfit. Clarice liked to ride fast, and jump. She hoped her husband was of a similar mind, and even warned him so.

"I believe there is a challenge in those words, Mrs. Lecter," he mused as they rode out into the untouched snow, far from any prying ears of staff. If it were not for his coat and tack being black, Clarice would have lost her husband's new horse in the snow that surrounded them, so pure was his white hide.

"There is no challenge when there is victory guaranteed," Clarice assured. She was posting easily, her body remembering the rhythms of these creatures, even years out of practice.

"Impudence again, my dear! I thought I had broken you of that habit within our first hours of acquaintance."

"But I was a young lady then sir, mostly untried in the ways of the world. I am older, a married woman, and certain of my own skills. I cannot claim to best you at languages or any refined art, but in this, you have met your better."

"Riding is not a fine art?"

"I have found that anything that brings simple, pure enjoyment is considered very coarse, indeed."

Lecter paused their trot and impressed her by leading his horse to sidepass close to hers with very little pressure from his heels. "Another notion, Mrs. Lecter, that I will delight in disillusioning you from."

Clarice's smile slipped just a little at his tone-dark and velvet, losing almost all the metal his time in the asylum had attributed to it. Yes, in some arts she still had much to learn, but it did not follow that her education should be as painful or as terrifying as the courses before. In fact, in this moment, confident in her seat, she found no terror at all. No fear in that curved, smiling, bloody mouth coming any closer.

And then he was gone, with a swift whistle, his stallion took off, racing across the white plane. Not to be outdone by some well-bred, silver spoon light seat, Clarice let out a loud command, and her mare followed in hot pursuit, kicking up snow in her wake. She was half out of the saddle, leaning close to her steed's head, hissing encouragement and promises into her flattened ear. The beat of the hooves matched her heart, her world narrowing to the speck of black amongst the vast blinding snow that was her husband, and besting him. They came up hard upon the doctor and his snowy stallion and after a moment, surpassed them.

Weaving before her husband in a gross display of silent bragging, she urged Makaria on just a little more _just a bit longer, old girl_. They came upon the edge of their current estate and suddenly Clarice, steed and all, were airborne as they jumped the fence. She turned and watched her husband make the same jump and rode to her side. He reached out, and grabbed her reigns, loose enough not to spook her mare, but enough to slow them down. Their horses circled each other, at first a fast ring, but slowing with each step until they danced a slow cadence around each other in an ever-narrowing circumference.

"Do you conceded, sir," Clarice asked, breathless. Her face stung awfully from the abuse of the cold wind, but she grinned none the less, grateful for the winter sun's warmth on her face.

"I do, most assuredly. I have been bested fairly." He even doffed his hat to her. "How you fly, my wife. I am glad I wed you when I had the opportunity, for surely you would have flown far and fast from me."

They were facing one another now, their steeds still except for the occasional impatient stamp. His face was flushed as well, and his eyes once so deep and fiery in the candlelight were now glittering as bright as rubies as they beheld her. Between them, their breath made a veil of lace in the cold air. "You flew a thousand miles away and for seven years," she reminded him. "And here we are. Wherever I go, I think I will carry you with me always."

"A burden then."

"I thought so once." She had cursed his name so many times, a mark worse on her than the disfigured nurse Chilton had brandished with such glee. Marked not as a warning with ugliness, but as an equal with kindness. But, as she had pondered these last nights, she would have been shamefully wasted like her Starling legacy had foretold without him, and his acidic tongue, and branding kindness. "But I believe I was incorrect."

"I endeavor to make that true for now and always." He reached out and tucked some hair that had fallen from under her hat, back up into a pin's hold. "Come. It's not much further."

The place he led her to was at the crest of the next hill. A small graveyard nestled on the edge of the forest with so few headstones it barely earned the title. The view was breathtaking-she could see the little village below through the smoke of their chimneys, a little drop of color in the ever-encroaching white of snow. Clarice dismounted, and looked down at the landscape, suddenly wishing she could match the doctor in those 'fine arts'. She would love to have the skills to capture such a moment and such a view, forever.

His next words shook her from such a pleasant reverie.

"I buried my sister in a place like this."

Turning sharply to her husband, she stood there in shock. His confession about his sibling had been hard for him to put to words, with many starts and stops of conversations, like a bedridden patient learning to walk again. Some progress before stumbling, and having to try again. A bold declaration like this must have taken some effort, and by the forcibly calm look, she saw it did.

"Have you returned to it? Ever?"

He shook his head. "No. I do not believe I can remember the place, even if I were to try. In winter every tree in the forest looks much the same and I was not careful in my choosing, only knowing the necessity of it. For her to be at rest." He dismounted as well and walked a few paces to the nearest headstone. "I am as severed from her place as you are from your father."

Clarice bowed her head. Like a flood gate, the sorrow in which she had waded the past day rushed in again. Her father, whom she now saw in such an unfavorable light. A realistic one. She almost wished she could go back and stop her mind from following such a path. But Clarice knew she'd rather have a hard truth, than a comfortable ignorance.

Ignorance was fatal.

Lecter took her hand and pulled her to stand by him before the stone cross in the ground. He placed her palms on it, pressing her gloved hands down until the cold seeped through the leather. He stood on the other side, the stone between them. "You say that you carried me with you for seven years. You have carried your father longer, my dear. Your rage and your sorrow, both justified, are a heavy burden. But this is what is left of him."

His fingers squeezed hers atop the stone. "A marker in the earth, cold and silent. Go on and tell your sorrow to this poor fellow beneath you. Scream your plight to him, curse him, and rage. His reply will come as readily as your father's."

Clarice's face crumbled, and she tried to tug from his grip, but he was too strong. She did not want to think of her father, cold and buried in the ground. So many years reducing the noble face, and jovial smile to a decaying grin of a skeleton. His golden tooth probably still gleamed in his shabby pauper's coffin. Thin and decayed, no longer the strong warm man who lifted her so easily.

"Does he wear a badge in his grave?"

"He never had one," she whined, trying desperately not to weep.

"Neither did you. What does that piece of metal mean to you now?"

" _It meant everything to him_!" Her scream sent birds flying from the forest behind Lecter, and with such fervor, might have even awakened the corpses below their feet. "It was all he knew! There was no other life for him!"

Clarice looked down at the stone cross they were both gripping. Her father had no such ornament. A wooden stick and plaque, too cheap to even be called a cross, rotting away even after a year of placing it in the dirt, probably gone now. Swept away with the wind, time, and neglect as all Starlings would in the end. "I loved him," she cried, tears finally making their way down her abused face. "I loved him best of anyone in the world! He was good to me, he loved me dearer than any father could love their child! He was honest and good, and honorable! He gave me everything, anything decent in me is due to him. It was the best years of my life! Nothing could compare! Nothing…"

Her knees failed her and she kelt in the snow, sobbing piteously, finding that these words were true, just as true as the shameful honesty of Mr. Starling's follies. Her husband rounded the headstone and held out a hand to help her up. His wife merely grasped his fingers and made no move to rise, so deep was her grief. He pulled her to her feet, brushing the snow from her skirt. Clarice rested her forehead against his shoulder, weeping still. Lecter let her lean against him as he shook out a handkerchief and cleaned her face. A hand at the back of her head held her there until her tears quieted.

After a few gulping, but calmer breaths from his bride, Lecter leaned back. He placed a hand on her collar, much like he had in the servant's passage in the Verger mansion. "This is all you need of your father. He is no more his death than he is the bits of bone that lie in the ground back in America. He is in your love for him, and every promise you keep, and every bit of courage you display. You need not keep him in your sorrow and carry him like a badge."

Clarice looked up at him, her pretty eyes wide with sudden understanding and relief. As soon as the notion settled in her mind, she could almost feel the chain of her life long mourning slide off. She swayed, dizzy with the sudden weightlessness of it. Her husband steadied her, and for a moment she was sure he would mark her revelation with a kiss.

But Lecter merely rested his forehead against hers for a brief moment. Then he was gone from her. "Stay here as long as you need. Tell whatever benediction you need to the dead. Come when you are ready."

He spent the next half hour by their horses, patting their flanks and claiming them from the scene they had witnessed and not understood. He respectfully kept his back to his wife, and when she finally joined him at his side, her smile was sad.

She had not uttered a word to the wind.

They rode back at a much more sedate speed, and when they entered the house, both were chilled through. After a hot bath and meal, Clarice asked him to play for her again. He obliged.

* * *

Later that night, when her husband had played his last aria and they were in their separate beds, Clarice finally slept well and deeply. Therefore the shriek that awoke her was horrific indeed to rouse her from such heavy slumber. She started awake all at once, unsure if it was phantom or reality that had brought her back to the waking world. And then again, a high metal scream ending in a low moan.

Clarice flung back the blankets, the shock of cold barely slowing her as she snatched up her robe and fumbled for her slippers. Hands shaking with adrenaline and cold were clumsy at the tinderbox to light a candle in its holder. Scenarios running from most logical to the outlandish whipped through her brain. One of the servants? A maid attacked in her bed? A thief in the night come to steal? Intruder of the law, come to do his duty to the two criminals?

She was in the hall, candle in one hand, revolver in the other. But the sight that greeted her stopped her in her tracks. Down the long hall, where her candle's light barely touched, she saw a figure. Her heart was in her throat before recognition took over. It was her husband, the white of his shirt and skin illuminated weakly by the candle, his black hair and trousers making it seem as if he slunk from the shadows as one of them, molded by the darkness rather than flesh.

But it was his eyes, the fathomless black of his eyes that made her heart stop. No longer winking red, but deep pools of blackened fear. He was wild looking, like a wolf with a leg in a trap, mad with the need for escape. He certainly acted monstrous, his head swinging around to face her as soon as he saw the light, hunched as if his spine was bowed in pain.

Upon sight of her, however, he straightened. That dancer's pose she had admired so during their time together now turned predatory. His footsteps were silent save for the creak of the floorboards that counted each one as he approached her.

Clarice saw now how frightening he could be in his insane calm, stalking closer to her, cold in her thin nightgown and robe. The candle shook a little in her hand, making the rays of light flicker over the paintings she had hung in this hall, once cheerful and refined, now haunting in their nightly repose. But she did not waver, or back down. Was it _his_ mouth that had unleashed that horrific scream?

He drew closer, and Clarice's eyes dropped to his mouth-not in anticipation, oh no! It was not his lips she contemplated, but the flash of white beneath-those famed and deadly teeth. _He will not hurt me_ a part of her whispered. A mad part, perhaps, but it was a voice she trusted. It was the soothing tones of her instinct, unfettered by higher knowledge and educated caution, running purely on things understood rather than learned. _I will not run from him. He will not hurt me._

He was upon her now, toe to toe. Their combined panting battered the candle's weak flame between them. Clarice lifted her chin and whispered his Christian name, whether in command or plea, she couldn't say. And like a tether thrown to a drowning man, her husband returned.

The doctor blinked, looking her over as if just now seeing her there. She saw the emotion flicker across his features, confusion, realization, shame-and then nothing. He schooled himself into placid almost disdainful calm. But Clarice understood it was distaste for his own behavior than her presence. Silent as a shade, he lifted a hand and gestured to her room.

Clarice backed away, never breaking their gaze. Blindly, she reached for her door handle, and as she slipped back into her chamber, taking the light with her, the shadows once again devoured Lecter, inch by inch, until the last she saw of him was the pinwheels of red in his eyes before shutting her door.

Using her candle to light the fire in her room again, Clarice sat in her armchair. Her heart had restarted and began a violent tattoo against her breast. But she did not watch her door in abject fear. No, Clarice knew the doctor would return to his bed and disturb her no more. She knew it as sure as she knew herself-for it was what she had done after being tormented for hours a night by lamb cries.

No her heart did not beat with fear, but with a sudden and grave understanding. Clarice now understood those cruel questions he had put to her about her father, about her past. Those searching probing words that had dug through her mind's library, searching for a specific volume of pain. At the time Clarice understood it to be her tithe, her place in her bones where she would have to break to become stronger.

Older, she knew better now, as she did in all things. It was not a starving monster search of nourishment. Oh no, it was like desperately seeking like, a soul searching for something familiar in a world of strangers. And he had found it. That was what had anchored Lecter to her over distance and time. He had not drunk her pain-it was his communion.

She shed tears again that night, but not for a dead man's bones. Clarice wept for the dead leaves of a still beating heart too long in winds of winter. And in all things, she wanted the sun again.

The next morning Clarice would ask if anyone heard the noise of the previous night, and would be shocked by a rule she did not know had been mandated since the property was bought: The servants were banned from the upper floors after dinner was served.


End file.
